Phaeton Eta
by Lazy Tortoise
Summary: An away mission goes wrong, an important diplomatic assignment isn't what it seems, and logic is elusive at the best of times. Spock would have an easier time dealing with all that if he hadn't decided to try and keep Kirk alive. Slow building K/S.
1. Prelude to a Storm

_**A/N: **This story has been lying around for a while now. I started writing it several months ago only to have it grow wildly out of control - it developed a plot, and sprouted a whole set of issues for the characters to deal with. Writing a longer story is a whole different ballgame than a one shot and I wanted to do it justice, even if it meant taking down the first bit until I'd gotten the rest of the plot straightened out. _

_So: thanks to Argella and her lovely comments for keeping me writing. And a thousand thanks to Dizdayn, my wonderful beta, who put everything together just right and ironed out the commas. I owe you guys._

_Star Trek belongs to Paramount Viacom._

* * *

><p><strong>I. Prelude to a Storm<strong>

"Well," bellowed the doctor, "isn't this just a lovely day for a picnic." Rain plastered his hair to his forehead, and his uniform was soaked through. Spock could barely hear him over a nearby crack of thunder. It was pouring down with a vengeance, and he had been forced to shelter the belt-pouch for his tricorder under his waterproof science tunic.

Nearby, two ensigns stood huddled together, their teeth chattering. They stared intently at the beginning undergrowth fifteen feet away. They looked as though they were praying fervently that the other half of the away-team would emerge from the forest before something else did. Bones was keeping up a steady litany of muttered 'Goddamit, Jim's under his breath, and though Spock knew that logically neither curses nor prayers would make any difference he considered joining in.

"The electrical fluctuations are increasing in strength," Spock informed the group.

McCoy crossed his arms across his chest. "They've been increasing for hours. I'm not going anywhere without the captain."

Water dripped from Spock's hair into his eyes, and he wiped it away distractedly with the back of his hand. He moved a bit closer to McCoy to be able to talk to him without raising his voice.

"It was not my intention to abandon the captain. I was simply informing you of the continued development of our situation. I estimate a less than three-percent chance that communication with the Enterprise or the captain's team will be restored within the next few hours."

McCoy groaned. "We're all going to catch pneumonia. I _told_ Jim to bring a tent or something - we need to find shelter. I don't have the time for an epidemic."

Spock glanced at the ensigns. They looked thoroughly uncomfortable. He himself was marginally better off, as he was wearing multiple layers of insulating clothing. Given that a temperature deemed 'pleasantly brisk' by humans was deemed 'I request a moment to fetch my mittens and temperature-controlled space suit, sir' by Vulcans, Spock had made a habit of dressing for the worst on away missions. Still, an insidious chill crept under his shirts. McCoy was right; pneumonia was a distinct risk.

Spock adjusted the strap of his tricorder distractedly, his mind running over the problem. They couldn't contact the Enterprise, or beam any supplies up or down. That left them only with what they had brought with them: two tricorders, four phasers, an emergency medical kit, some water, a flashlight and four field rations. The phasers could be used to start a fire or heat a boulder in a pinch but either of those options would require venturing into the forest for materials.

McCoy seemed to be thinking along the same lines.

"Spock," he said his voice low. "The others should have been here two hours ago. It's possible that they found shelter when the rain began."

"But not likely," Spock said. "The irregular pattern of the topography and weather added to the dangerous nature of the fauna - it is probable that they are having problems of one sort or another."

McCoy sighed. "Yeah. Christ, I'm getting too old for this. If it were just you and me, I'd say we should risk the trouble and go in after Jim."

The tree branches creaked and moaned in the wind, and in the distance, a bolt of lightning struck. The brief flash illuminated the scene with preternatural clarity. One of the ensigns winced. The electricity in the air had Spock's hair on end, and a faint quiver in his body hummed along with the charged atmosphere. He found himself echoing McCoy's sentiment. The worrying and the waiting were grating on his patience, and his Vulcan instincts were clamoring for action. But with the captain gone, he was the ranking officer. McCoy could take responsibility for himself - and would hardly obey him if he deemed the order unreasonable, anyway - but the two remaining ensigns were young and untried. He couldn't drag them into unknown territory on the small chance that they might stumble upon the captain's party. His duty was first and foremost the survival of his group.

Spock inspected the edge of the woods critically. If some trouble had indeed befallen Kirk, the forest would be a thoroughly unsafe place to explore, even if it was just to gather dry branches. The frontier between the heavy undergrowth and the open field offered little shelter from the rain. It consisted mainly of thin young saplings - green wood, useful for making bows, not bonfires.

"What do you suggest?" asked Spock.

"How should I know? I've got a goddamn snowball's chance in Hell of finding the captain, but it's better than sittin' around here, huddling and waiting for the weather to blow itself out." McCoy aimed a vicious kick at the grass. "What the flying saints were we expecting to find down here, anyway? If I've told Jim once, I've told him a thousand times - there ain't nothing but disease and danger in space-"

"Excuse me, sir," piped one of the ensigns. She was the taller of the two, and wearing a blue tunic similar to Spock's. McCoy and Spock both turned to look at her, and she shifted uncomfortably under the sudden attention. "I, um - the grass. I used to be a Girl Scout. Back on Earth, I mean, and we'd build stuff..."

"Spit it out, Ensign," McCoy ordered.

"If we could build a basic framework from branches, we could cover it with sod to get out of the rain."

The other ensign straightened a little. "Yeah. Yeah, we could. Hey, that's a good idea." He bit his lip thoughtfully. "I haven't got any string to tie the branches, but maybe we could use shoelaces -"

Spock sorted through his memories of the crew rosters for their names. "Ensign... Cooper, is it not?"

The shorter one brightened at the mention of his name.

"One of Scotty's," McCoy supplied helpfully, as if the red shirt and proclivity for constructing out of unusual materials hadn't given it away.

Spock sighed and shed his outer tunic. He pressed it into Cooper's outstretched hands.

"Starfleet uniform does not currently include shoelaces, but you should be able to fabricate suitable ropes from this. Ensign Haymes, if you would instruct Doctor McCoy in how to best excavate lumps of sod? Excellent suggestion."

Haymes beamed, and Spock made a note to examine her file more carefully. Improvisation was a useful skill in the field, even if her self-confidence would require some cultivation.

"You're not going out looking for the others alone," McCoy said firmly.

Spock tried his best to look innocent. "I am going to harvest some of the saplings for the framework," he said stiffly. "My superior strength makes me the logical choice for that task."

"You do that," said McCoy, eyeing him suspiciously. "Just don't go gettin' any ideas about running off, now."

McCoy, for all that Spock disagreed with him, was not unintelligent. Spock snapped the nascent trees as close to the roots as he could, trying to make the breaks clean, though his mind was elsewhere. The woods, dark and beckoning on his left, weighed more and more heavily in his thoughts each passing minute. The captain would hardly miss the appointed meeting time if he had any choice in the matter, and two hours ago the storm had been a faint shade of what it was now. Some unknown beast might have attacked the other half of the landing party. They might be trapped by the weather, cold and wet. They might be hurt, and in need of medical assistance. Jim might be hurt.

Such speculation was illogical and led to nothing but unfounded worries.

Gathering his saplings into his arms, Spock straightened. He shut his eyes for a moment and tried to drown out all external stimuli. It was the first step in the ritual meditation, a mental dance he'd once been able to perform without conscious effort.

_There is a storm howling_, he told himself, _but you cannot hear it. The rain is falling, but it cannot touch you. Nothing beyond the border of your presence exists. There is only the serenity of your mind. Only you._

Carefully, as though he were handling a live animal, he located the fear and worry in his thoughts. They were bubbling just below the surface, leaking through and poisoning his subconscious. He made an effort to gather them and, with all his force, pushed them downward behind the mental walls he maintained to keep his emotions at bay. The walls gave way readily. This close to his emotional core, he couldn't repress a stab of concern.

His barriers were translucent and worn paper thin, the membrane of an egg instead of a complete shell.

He'd been aware of his deteriorating control since the destruction of Vulcan - he'd found it difficult to focus on his meditation, and he'd had to work increasingly harder to maintain his customary logic. At first, he'd assumed it was a temporary thing. Change was universally hard, and Spock could imagine few situations more difficult to assimilate than the twin loss of his mother and his home planet.

Vulcans rarely spoke unless there was a need to and valued privacy greatly. Despite this, they were social creatures - the need for a pack, a family, lay deeply embedded in their genetic code. Mated Vulcans and Vulcans with many familial bonds had a greater chance of survival on a hostile desert planet. Solitary Vulcans rarely lived long enough to pass on their genes. The implementation of the teachings of Surak and subsequent urbanization of Vulcan had led to a far greater network of bonds than previously, and the Vulcan mind adapted to encompass the complex system of friendships, alliances, families and sympathies that evolved.

Compared to the link between bondmates, the familial bonds were weak. They were forged and broke continuously and required no great compatibility between minds. No emotion, thought or feeling was conveyed through them, barring a faint sensation of _presence_. The link between mated Vulcans was something else altogether - the difference between seeing a photo of a person and meeting that person in the flesh.

With the destruction of Vulcan, Spock not only lost all but a handful of his familial bonds but the link to his prospective bondmate as well.

Granted, he'd only met T'Pring on two occasions and never lowered the shields surrounding his end of the bond. He'd taken her presence in his head for granted. Now, he finally understood why the Vulcan elders were so insistent that all young Vulcans bond. Her absence had left a void in his mind - a black hole, similar to where his home planet used to be. It drained his mental shields steadily. He had to fight to repress unwanted thoughts, and when he accidentally touched his crewmates, he would catch flickers of emotion off their skin.

Spock gritted his teeth. He'd been a conflicted child, but he had overcome his difficulties. This... emptiness would pass. Perhaps he could research more advanced methods of control.

He took a deep breath and turned his back on the forest.

Between them, it didn't take the landing party long to erect a small shelter of bent and woven saplings and cover it with turf. Cooper had torn Spock's shirt into quite serviceable strips of cloth, which, combined with the simple construction, made the improvised bivouac strong enough to resist the heavy rain. There was barely enough room for all four of them under it. Mud from the sod and the ground beneath them soaked into their clothes. Spock could feel McCoy's arm shivering along his side. After a few minutes had passed, the shivers abated a little. The landing party huddled together, conserving what body heat they had, making sure to keep out of the wind.

"Wish I had a bottle of Saurian brandy," McCoy muttered. "I should'a seen this coming when I joined the fleet."

Spock couldn't fault him for his lack of preparedness. This wasn't exactly what he'd had in mind, either - Vulcans were descended from a race of desert-living felidae, and if there was anything he hated more than being cold, it was being cold, wet and helpless. He should take steps to prevent this from happening again. Obviously, four shirts wasn't enough. He'd need some sort of polymer coating on his uniform boots as well and a more detailed weather report. He'd convince the captain that beaming down with the landing party was illogical, and failing that (he estimated a 0,0023% chance of success) he'd outfit Kirk with a tracker collar that wasn't affected by electromagnetic surges in the atmosphere.

Spock liked independence - another legacy from his felidae ancestors - and power in moderation suited this desire perfectly. As first officer, the captain was required to listen to his opinions and respect them. He could get away with a good deal that the rest of the crew couldn't, and had command over the entire Science department. He had access to some of the best equipment in Starfleet, and fascinating new things to study with it. He was content. If Jim died, he would be required to spend a lot less time in the labs and a lot more time ordering people around. It was not an exciting prospect.

The problem was, while Spock was a good enough planner to keep most people out of trouble, somehow Jim Kirk seemed to anticipate the most likely result, in a most Vulcan manner, and then go to great lengths to ensure the exact opposite outcome. If a mission was expected to go peacefully, the captain could be sure to discover the one thing that set off the latent murderous streak of the Pacifist Kitten-Cuddlers of Elysia IV. Conversely, if you needed a peace treaty negotiated with a horde of raving, tentacled eldritch horrors, you'd want Kirk to spearhead the effort. Spock, like any good scientist, had founded this theory in personal observations.

He had tried to get the Starfleet admiralty to recognize that Kirk was a liability, emotional and rebellious - not suited for command. Kirk had become the youngest captain in Federation history.

He had marooned Kirk on an inhospitable ice planet. Kirk had discovered the two men in the known universe who could conspire to invent transwarp beaming before its time, to send him right back to the Enterprise.

He had tried to kill Kirk with his bare hands. Spock was sitting on a planet at the far edge of civilization trying to figure out how to keep the captain alive long enough to collect on his pension.

And worse, he was pretty sure that somewhere during the long hours of work and bored, deep-space conversations on the bridge, he'd begun to enjoy Kirk's company. Keeping Kirk alive to avoid captaincy was an excellent motivation for his concern. He wasn't quite sure if it was the only one anymore.

The minutes inched by. Spock alternated between watching the forest and his tricorder for signs of life.

"It's still getting worse," Haymes said.

McCoy snorted. "Well, it's a good thing you science types are around to tell us. Dunno what -"

There was a blinding flash from somewhere nearby, followed by a resounding _crack_ that set their ears ringing. The people in the shelter exhaled, tension fading rapidly after the initial shock.

Then, an unearthly groaning cut through the storm followed by the crash of falling rock and breaking trees.

Spock was on his feet before his brain caught up, phaser in hand. McCoy was a little slower, but he took the time to slide the notch on his weapon from 'stun' to 'kill'.

"I'm going after Jim, regulations be damned," he informed Spock through clenched teeth.

"Ensign Haymes, Ensign Cooper. You will remain here until contact with the Enterprise can be reestablished. The doctor and I-"

Pure, primal fear rushed through Spock's body like wildfire, choking off his voice. His vision swam. The ground was soft beneath him, and he clutched at it desperately, nails scrabbling at the mud. _Make it stop, make it stop, please, oh_ -

As quickly as it had come, the feeling was gone.

"Spock! Goddammit, man -" McCoy was on his knees next to him, supporting him. The doctor ran his tricorder over Spock's body, trying to locate the problem. Spock batted his hand away. The attack hadn't been physical, or a psychic assault from some entity with a high Esper rating and an axe to grind, he'd have recognized the feeling of an intruding mind instantly, but neither did the fear originate with him. It had been an echo, a mirror reaction, triggered by... what?

"I am perfectly healthy," he gasped.

"Bullshit. You hit the dirt like you'd been dropped; you're not fine."

"I am _fine_," Spock snarled. Instantly, he realized his slip and continued in a more neutral tone of voice. "I am fine. I simply picked up - resonance, of a sort, of a crew member's mind."

"Jim."

Spock nodded.

"Your mind voodoo works over distance?"

_No_, thought Spock. _Vulcans are touch-telepaths. We can only sense the minds of others through skin contact. To communicate over distance requires at least the initial stages of a mating bond. What I just experienced - that was none of Jim's doing. He is psi-null._

Spock nodded.

McCoy stared. "Find him," he said, simply.

Biting back his doubts, Spock settled into a more comfortable position. Something was wrong. The panic was gone, leaving only occasional spikes of unrest. Still, he felt sick and weak as if he'd just run a marathon. Gently, he probed his mind for the familial bond to Jim.

Behind the mental barriers, Spock's katra swirled. It was black as night, with only a faint blue overtone to distinguish it from the void of his severed bonds. Entwined with the edges of his katra were the bonds that had survived the cataclysm of Vulcan. They were fragile and hair-thin, glowing faintly with the light of Spock's memories. However, one stood out from the tangle - easily twice the size of the others. As Spock watched, a tremor ran the length of it, making the golden-red colors flicker like the flame of a candle.

With only the slightest of hesitations, Spock reached out to touch it.

The bond was warm. Spock usually avoided contact with his bonds. They were firmly anchored below his layers of Surakian logic - a place in his mind he was not comfortable with visiting regularly. And the void was so terribly close and present. A Terran idiom claimed that all wounds would heal in time, and that was exactly what Spock intended to give it: time and as much distance as possible.

In this case, however, distance was not an option.

Focusing his thoughts, he poured the barest measure of conscience into the bond. The results were instant.

Distantly, Spock felt his breath catch in his chest. Oh. _Oh_.

He'd wondered how Jim had been able to provoke him so easily after Delta Vega.

At least this explained the spasm of fear - Jim wasn't secretly a virtuoso telepath. Spock's own mind had sensed some distress, and instinctively sent out a warning. It was defending itself against the loss of another bond; the strongest he now possessed. Jim's mind was highly compatible with his own, to a degree where a full bond would be possible, if unthinkable. Spock sighed. Of course, any bond of Kirk's could only lead to complications and unwanted, emotional decisions. Based on past patterns, he should have predicted the unpredictable.

But now was no time for reprimands. The strength of their connection offered an opportunity and a dilemma. As it was, the bond was simply not clear enough that Spock could use it to locate Jim. Rationally, Spock should inform McCoy of this fact, and they could search for their friend by more traditional means.

Or.

Jim might be dead by the time they got to him. They might not find him at all. If Spock strengthened the bond, he would not only be able to track his friend, he would be able to pick up on basic shifts in his emotions and mental state and prepare for any proximal dangers. It would be an unforgivable breach of Jim's privacy to engage him in the initial stages of a mating bond without his express consent, but Spock was almost completely certain he would prefer having his emotions read unknowingly to premature death.

There were means to terminate a mating bond, especially a tentative one.

Thus decided, Spock called up every memory of Jim he could summon. _A quick, easy smile. Sprawled in the captain's chair. Hands on the armrest. Tapping. Blue eyes, refulgent, and blue human veins below the skin._ Rain was running into his eyes. He screwed them shut, willing everything but Jim out of his mind. J_im eating a sandwich obscenely. Jim on the stand at the Kobayashi Maru trial. Jim bruised and panting, struggling, clawing at Spock's hands on his throat. Jim's arm pressed against his in the turbolift. A breath at the nape of his neck as Jim bends to look over his shoulder._

The bond sparked, beckoning him deeper.

_Warmth, frustration, friendship. Jim, in the storm. Lost, but not. Parted and never parted, two halves of the same whole. My mind to yours, my thoughts to yours, one and together, always -_

It was like walking from the dark into a brightly lit room. Suddenly, Spock wasn't alone anymore. He knew Jim was there as he knew that gravity existed, inevitable and timeless. His dark blue katra intertwined happily with Jim's golden-red, forming a slender whipcord. It was joy, pure and simple, the respite from the crushing emptiness. Spock thought he might be humming from the sheer relief.

Then, reality came crashing back. Jim wasn't safe. The emotions being projected his way weren't '_happy, so glad my first officer psychically assaulted me_,' but a stew of grief, pain and a dazed, shell-shocked numbness.

Spock sent whatever reassurance he could muster in Jim's general direction then shielded all but the most necessary parts of the bond. He shouldn't take advantage.

Spock's eyes snapped open. McCoy was staring at him with equal parts suspicion and hope.

Explanations would take up precious time.

"Follow," Spock commanded and took off running. He trusted that McCoy would obey. He plunged headfirst into the forest. Branches whipped at his legs as he hurled through clusters of vines and bushes. He tried to maintain his footing on the muddy and irregular terrain. Occasionally a rock or root would snag his foot, and he'd tumble forward, caught in his own momentum. The rain was a weak, broken drizzle beneath the trees, but the heavy foliage and cloudy gloom made for terrible visibility regardless. McCoy was hard on his heels, and Spock made sure not to gain more than a few yards so that the doctor would not lose sight of him. He was panting heavily, and he was well aware that they were making more noise than advisable given the circumstances.

Still, theoretically forging a mating bond to your captain and actually doing it were two entirely different beasts. Spock hadn't predicted the urgency his Vulcan instincts called up when his _bondmate_ - the thought made him wince - was in danger. It was all he could do to keep his feet in check and a firm hold on his phaser when his hindbrain was calling out for blood, death and barehanded mutilation of whatever threat dared to encroach upon _his mate_.

Spock forced up more shields around the bond and focused on his path.

When Jim was less than a few yards away, he slowed to a jog. Beckoning McCoy closer with one hand, he read the jumble of Jim's emotions. Dull agony, but no fresh terror. No imminent threat, probably. Spock crouched and began moving softly forward, keeping his eyes and ears open. It was a struggle to keep the slow pace, but logically, it was the safe thing to do. If he spooked some alien predator, it might simply snatch up its prey and run.

"I'll cover you," McCoy muttered under his breath. "How far?"

Spock slid forward, parting the branches to reveal an unexpected clearing. The ground sloped dramatically and was peppered with large boulders. Mud covered everything in an inch-deep layer of grime. On the left, there was a steep cluster of cliffs. At the far edge of the clearing, the ground dropped and vanished abruptly into a deep ravine. Spock looked away from the edge, trying not to think of slipping, and falling...

A flash of silver and red from the cliffs, and then a voice snarled:

"Show yourself."

McCoy raised his hands slowly. "Ensign M'Lin, this is Doctor McCoy and Commander Spock. Is the captain there?"

There was a broken sob, and M'Lin emerged from behind a large boulder. "Yes. Yes, he's here. Oh, thank God - Dale and Larrees -" She collapsed into the mud, looking up a McCoy with an expression of pure relief. Her red shirt was torn and battered. "You're here," she said simply.

"Jesus," McCoy muttered. He tilted her head gently with two fingers. Running down the side of her neck was a wide, bleeding gash. It continued down across her back, partially obscured by her hair. Her tunic was roughly torn and frayed around it, and it looked as though she hadn't been mauled by a beast as much as dragged across sandpaper. Immersed as he was in his instincts, Spock could smell the blood from where he stood.

Ignoring the doctor and the ensign, he moved to the cliffs.

"There," M'Lin gasped. "Over there. He was trying to - to help." McCoy shushed her and unclasped his portable medkit from his belt.

Spock felt Jim before he saw him, a dimple in the fabric of the universe, drawing him in. His friend was stretched on the ground. He was streaked with irregular splotches of red and brown. His eyes were closed. Spock dropped to his knees, seeking out a pulse. Jim's heart was beating, but the flow of blood was irregular and faint. Possessively, Spock examined Jim's prone body for signs of damage. It was ridiculously easy to discover the cause of the pain radiating along the bond; Jim's leg was trapped beneath a huge boulder. Spock scraped a little at the ground surrounding it. The earth was porous and soft, and though the leg was probably broken in several places, there was a good chance it hadn't been crushed altogether.

McCoy appeared at Spock's shoulder as though he'd been called. His eyes went wide and flickered between Spock, Jim and the boulder. Carefully, he bent down next to Spock and examined Jim's leg.

"I can't do much," he said. "I've got some painkillers, but that's all. We're going to have to wait for proper medical supplies. M'Lin's wound needs a dermal regenerator, too. She's resting, but we've got to get her out of the rain." Pulling out a hypo, he exposed Jim's jugular and pressed. Jim's body twitched reflexively, and he emitted a soft moan. McCoy gave Spock an odd look and inched away from him.

"For Christ's sakes, calm down. I'm doing Jim a _favor_."

"I am aware of that."

"No, you're growling, like you're some goddamn stray dog."

Spock stopped and reassessed his priorities. The threat to Jim was not of the sort that could be fought and killed. Logic would be helpful in this situation. Instinctive knowledge of how to gut humanoids with his bare hands wouldn't.

"Vulcans do not growl." He tapped at the boulder. "We need to shift this. Jim cannot stay here; the ledge is far too exposed."

"Don't bullshit me. I'll sedate you if I have to." McCoy ran a hand distractedly through his hair. "I can't say I don't agree with you on the exposed thing, though. Seems like the others took shelter in the cliffs and got surprised when lightning brought the whole thing down on their heads. Don't want to know what that says about the force of the lightning in this hellhole. It isn't healthy to be around here. How do you propose we go about it?"

"Give me a moment. I shall endeavor to remove the stone."

"We'll do it together. Jim hasn't been trapped long enough for crush syndrome to be an issue, but I'd like to make a tourniquet all the same. And we'll need some fluids..." The doctor went, presumably to search his kit for supplies.

Spock gently tore the seams of Jim's regulation trousers, exposing his damaged leg up to mid-thigh. For some reason, Jim's shirts were frequent martyrs to the Starfleet cause. Anything from a slight breeze to sparring practice would damage them irreparably. Spock had seen Jim's torso many times before, but the legs were new. He allowed himself a more thorough examination of the pattern of bruises speckling the skin like Rorschach ink stains. Jim was strong and healthy. If they managed to get him safely to shelter and keep him hydrated until help arrived, he would most likely be fine. He'd have to spend some time on crutches. Even though sub-dermal regenerators rapidly sped up the rate at which bone and muscle healed, it was not instantaneous. But Jim would walk again. His leg would regain its natural color. Spock gently brushed a fingertip along the slight hill of the knee.

"Spock," Jim gasped. "Hey."

Spock started, feeling illogically guilty. He was reminded of the time his mother had caught him staring at the solution to a puzzle cube before he'd solved it, the lure of instantaneous knowledge stronger than the challenge. Jim was staring at him hazily. He'd lifted his head an inch or two off the mud.

"Do not move," Spock commanded.

"I thought you were here. I could taste you or something. You taste different." Jim frowned. "No, that doesn't sound right. You smelled - oh, that's worse. You smell good, Spock. Don't worry about it."

Spock stripped off another layer of shirt, folding it neatly and tucking it under Jim's head. "You are on painkillers. Perhaps it would be best if you did not attempt to speak."

"My leg. It feels odd. Numb." Jim paused thoughtfully. "Spock, my leg is trapped under a fucking rock."

Spock bit back a smile at the deadpan delivery. A Jim on painkillers was a relaxed, indifferent Jim, and though he retained his fondness for Terran profanity, there was no real emotion behind it. Leg. Fucking. Rock. As though he were reading from a list of spare parts.

A finger poked at the corner of Spock's mouth.

"Stop that," said Jim.

Spock removed his hand with perhaps a bit more vehemence than necessary. "To what are you referring?"

"When you're smiling but not. It's selfish. You keep all the smile to yourself." As if illustrating his point, Jim's face lit up in a weak grin. "Bones! You came, too! Man - hey, you've got blood on you." The grin drained as quickly as it had come, replaced by a frown and a wrinkled forehead. "How about the others?"

"Ensign M'Lin will be getting into fresh trouble soon enough," said McCoy. He tied a cloth tightly about Jim's leg, restricting the blood flow. "There. That should keep the waste products from your leg from mugging your kidneys all at once. If you'd lend a hand, Mr. Spock-"

"S'not an answer," said Jim.

"They're dead, Jim," McCoy said, not without compassion.

Jim closed his eyes, and leaned back. "Get me out of here," he said.

Spock braced himself as well as he could on the slippery terrain, and put one shoulder to the rock. It would not budge, and McCoy joined him, swearing and groaning. Their feet dug trenches in the ground, until, after an inch of mud, they hit stone. That made it easier to find purchase, and they put renewed effort into the task. The weight of the rock, however, was greater than their combined strength.

"We could chip away at it with our phasers," McCoy suggested.

"Phasers were built with organic entities in mind, not stones. We would hardly make much of an impact. Furthermore, the slivers we would succeed in removing would be propelled from the rock at high speed. We would be able to retreat to a safe distance, but the captain does not have that luxury."

"A lever, then."

Spock looked meaningfully at the doctor, then the forest.

"Dammit man, I'm the doctor. You go find a branch."

"I have superior strength. My Vulcan genes afford me a better chance of lifting the boulder enough to afford us a better purchase for your lever."

"You're the one with the telepathic GPS. Weak, human me might get lost."

Spock was distantly aware of his hands curling into fists. _Mine_, said the pre-Surak instincts. _I am not leaving. _This time, he caught the low growl as it emanated from his chest.

At that moment, lightning proved it wasn't the garden variety from Earth and struck the same place twice.

The blast flung Spock and McCoy across the ledge. Spock's skull smacked heavily against a tree trunk. Bright spots danced across his vision from the impact and the flash. He blinked, trying to clear his sight. He was on his back, and something wet and warm was running down his forehead. His ears were ringing. He righted himself, tumbled and then got up again. McCoy was a splash of blue, unmoving and half-covered by a bush. The ledge had changed dramatically, a new crowd of rocks borne along by a torrent of water down the slope to the gorge.

A mud slide. Pent-up water and earth previously dammed by the cliffs, released by their destruction. The sight made Spock dizzy. His heart was racing.

Desperately, he tore at his shields, reaching for the bond with Jim. The boulder they had tried to shift was moving towards the long fall. And there, a few feet behind it, Jim. He was awake and casting about desperately for something to hold on to. Spock lunged for him without thinking, struggling to resist the tide of water and dirt. Jim managed to pull himself a few feet, biting his lip against the pain of his broken leg. Painkillers could only do so much.

Spock clasped Jim's shoulder, anchoring him against the tide. Jim wrapped a muddy hand around Spock's arm, clinging to him. Taking care not to further injure the leg, Spock linked his arms around Jim's chest and dragged him towards the forest. It was safer - lifting him would raise their combined center of mass, making Spock likely to lose his balance on the uneven footing. Below his palm, he could feel Jim's heart racing.

"Almost there, Jim," Spock said. Jim winced whenever the rough ground snagged at his injuries.

They were almost at the forest when Jim touched Spock's wrist.

"M'Lin!"

The captain made a quick, abortive movement, jerking roughly towards the precipice. Spock snatched at the collar of his shirt, which came away in his grasp. Jim didn't get far. He couldn't walk, let alone run, and he ended on his belly. His eyes were fixed on the ensign struggling weakly against the tide, almost at the edge.

"Get to the forest," Spock ordered. He didn't wait to see if the captain complied.

Stripping off the second-to-last of his shirts, he waded through the mud towards the ravine, forcing his eyes to stay on Ensign M'Lin. She had the same misty look in her eyes as Jim, and he presumed she was on painkillers as well. Her neck was bleeding freely, the ends of bandage still wrapped around her shoulder. Then ends were frayed where they'd been torn by a sharp cliff. She was dazed, thrashing about halfheartedly, beyond panic. Defying every instinct in his body, Spock forced himself closer to the edge. Suddenly, the line of the precipice was all he could see. It was hypnotic - the water, pulling him towards the inevitable fall. His heart sped. Spock bit his lip, using the sharp pain to focus. He was being illogical. He gathered his fear in his thoughts and forced it past his mental shields.

The shields, already worn and strained, cracked.

Adrenaline instantly rushed through him, summoned by the paralyzing terror that was the first thing through the breach. The world blurred, twisting out of focus. M'Lin's shirt and hair blazed with their own radiance, and the ravine was a dark and endless void.

_Sparks of light swirling like fireflies. Orange ground, breaking apart beneath his feet. He reaches desperately for her hand, her face suspended in time before him. Then, the rock breaks, and she plunges down, into nothing. A gravitational singularity - sooner or later, he's always drawn back to this. He's still reaching. A year later, his hand is still outstretched, waiting for her._

Spock blinked, trying to clear the memories from his vision. His shirt was still in his hand. The ravine was calling him, commanding his complete attention, and he dropped to his knees, averting his eyes. Water swirled past his shins, pulling, no match for Vulcan strength, but strong enough to make him feel like he was falling already. He stretched out, letting his shirt flow along with the current, keeping one sleeve firmly in his grasp.

"Ensign!" he called.

M'Lin snapped to attention, her gaze flickering from Spock to the impromptu rope. Near the edge, the push of the water was that much stronger, and Spock dug his feet against the rock as best he could, preparing for the added weight of the ensign. M'Lin managed to snag the sleeve just in time, her legs kicking in thin air. Her eyes were wide, and she was panting. Spock began hauling her in, offering a prayer to anyone listening that his waterproof undershirt was stronger than Kirk's command golds. It was excruciatingly slow, but M'Lin inched away from the precipice. Ripples spread in a 'v' behind her, and she tucked in her elbows and knees in an attempt to minimize her drag. Spock focused on the task, trying not to think of her feet, hovering hundreds of feet above the ground. From his vantage point, he could make out the landscape far below. Crags like jagged knives, half hidden by the rain, sloping into dense green vegetation. He blinked, and looked away.

A large branch floated by. Several of the smaller twigs caught in M'Lin's tangled hair, and scratched along her back. She winced, twisting to avoid it. Spock saw it coming before she did: a fresh pulse of water from the rain higher up on the cliffs. The wave caught her in the side, flipping her onto her back. Spock slid a few inches, propelled by the increased force of the water. The shirtsleeve slid through M'Lin's hands, slippery with mud and blood.

She cried out, lunged for it, and managed to grasp on with her left. Her shoulder spasmed under the strain, her wound pulled at a painful angle.

"Commander," she gasped.

Spock would replay that moment over and over. He had a split-second's window to reach out, to cover the distance to the precipice and drag her away.

_Cliffs crumbling, the world breaking apart at the seams_ - Spock was dragged under by terror and memory, and for an instant, he wavered.

That was enough. M'Lin's grip faltered. The current pulled her beyond his reach, and she was gone.

Spock stared in horror at the edge, at the dark handprints on his shirt. He let it go, useless as it was, watched it float over the precipice like a flag taken by the wind. The water temperature seemed to have dropped. He was shivering.

Slowly, he gathered himself. The forest seemed infinitely far away. Spock crossed the ledge in a daze, occasionally sliding a few feet backwards. It might have taken a while; he wasn't sure. He began to notice odd things. He wasn't sure if it was the tree-trunk blow to the head, or the crack in his barriers, but the wind in the leaves sounded like voices. The rain was no longer pelting but touching his face with a thousand cool fingertips, seeking entry to his mind.

When he felt roots beneath his feet, he stopped. McCoy was a few feet ahead, chest rising and falling evenly. Jim had curled up beside him, sheltering him from the wind with his body. Spock allowed himself to collapse next to them, his hand on Kirk's wrist to monitor his vitals. He was unconscious within moments.


	2. Nightmares

**A/N: **_Thank you to everyone who has reviewed for their lovely comments; your interest in the story is an incredibly encouraging thing. An extra large thanks goes to Dizdayn and her blue and yellow tags for her patience and thoroughness in editing. If you find this easy to read, it's because of her._

_Apparently eats italics when you transfer files from one format to the other. I am now aware of this, so: for your reading pleasure, a chapter with both italics and a disclaimer. Oops :P. _

_Star Trek, assorted characters and the Enterprise all belong to Paramount Viacom. _

* * *

><p><strong>II. Nightmares<strong>

Spock woke to a comfortable, familiar darkness. He was lying on a simple cot, covered with regulation Starfleet linens. The room smelled like disinfectant and lemons. If he focused, he could make out the distant hum of the engines, and the myriad other machinations required to keep five hundred people alive in space. He was in Sickbay, on the Enterprise.

His arms and legs were sore, and his head throbbed dully. He wasn't sure how much of the headache was physical, but it didn't seem to require his immediate attention. Briefly, he considered entering a healing trance until he was completely recuperated, but his injuries didn't seem to warrant the effort. Satisfied, he sat up in bed and looked around. It was seventeen minutes past three in the morning by his internal clock, and the medical staff was sleeping. Sickbay was empty save for a single bed along the opposite wall, with a corresponding cocoon of blankets. It was Jim.

Spock's barriers were still in shambles, and he could feel the captain's presence blazing from the far side of the room. Carefully, Spock swung his legs over the side of the bed and picked his way across the floor. He moved as quietly as possible to avoid waking his friend.

Jim lay on his side, drooling slightly, blanket pulled up to his ears. Spock grazed the bruise spreading across one cheekbone with his fingertips then reached for the medical chart. The PADD was backlit, and he set the light to its lowest setting to avoid detection. Apparently, the landing party had been beamed up approximately an hour after the mudslide, and he, McCoy, Haymes, Cooper and Jim had been admitted to sickbay immediately afterwards. McCoy and the two ensigns suffered only mild contusions and were discharged following a thorough check-up. Jim's leg had been fractured in three places, he had a concussion and a cracked rib. Spock had a cut to the forehead but no concussion. They were admitted twelve hours ago. Satisfied, Spock laid a hand on Jim's neck, checking his pulse rate and temperature. His body was 37,4 degrees.

_Slightly higher than the human average, but well within the normal range_, the usually repressed part of his brain added. _Still, scientific method demands that you obtain more samples to improve the accuracy of your results. Perhaps you should verify that his torso is not cold? The vital organs are located there. It would not do for the temperature to be out of the recommended range._

Spock withdrew his hand with a muted sigh. No, this wouldn't do at all. He needed peace and meditation. Jim was fine. It was far more important that Spock dedicate time to controlling the bond than hover by Jim's bedside like a hypospray-less McCoy. Preserving the captain's privacy and reestablishing his shields took precedence. Reluctantly, Spock tore himself away from the sight of Jim's sleepy, contented expression and left Sickbay.

Fortunately, Spock managed to avoid any crew members headed for the night shift on his way to his quarters. When the doors of his room finally slid shut behind him, he felt a wave of relief. It was good to be alone. He didn't bother ordering the lights on, just called upon muscle memory to find his chest of drawers. At the bottom of the top drawer was a small cask of candles and Vulcan incense. He systematically set up the candles in a wide circle on the floor. The circle was an integral part of meditation - the _yel-halek-kuv_, a symbol from early Vulcan culture representing the circles of the galaxy, from the orbiting planets in the heavens to the electrons in their courses. It was a smooth, perfect, logical shape, omnipresent in nature. It was a picture of what his mental barriers should be.

Spock fished a reed mat out from under his bed and unrolled it in the centre of the circle. The incense went in a small clay pot designed for the purpose. When he'd set everything up, he went about lighting the candles one by one. It was relaxing to let his mind go blank and just follow the familiar motions. He normally used a diminished version of the ritual, with no more than two or three candles. The full circle brought up memories of youth: a stone floor on Vulcan, one of the Elders instructing a class full of children in control. _Center yourself. The floor is cold, but you cannot feel it_ -

Spock settled on the mat and closed his eyes.

Rebuilding his mental barriers was the most important thing. Spock viewed them critically. There was a lot of debris to clear before healing the fracture. The link to Kirk mercifully alleviated the familiar, crippling emptiness of broken bonds, but M'Lin's death was a fresh source of guilt. Spock decided not to block it. He was Vulcan, but that meant being first and foremost logical. If something was painful but instructive, he would endure it. All actions had consequences, and if he were suddenly cut off from those, he would not be fit to command. His crippling fear had come from somewhere beneath the barriers containing his emotions, and it was only logical to have a equal, opposite force occupying the same space, reminding him exactly how much that fear could cost him.

Spock weighed each individual emotion with careful consideration then placed them gently beside his katra. He dissected his thought processes and motives of the past days, sorting them into trails of cause and effect. His mind would be clear, open to the world – open and untarnished by prejudice or feelings. He would learn, and he would become better, stronger for it.

When his thoughts were arranged in fractal patterns, each concept firmly in its place, he set to work on the barriers. They neatly encompassed his katra, bonds and instincts, a clear and visible line between his conscious and subconscious. It wasn't quick work, and he lost the specifics of time beyond a vague sense of its passing. Once complete, his barriers were still thin. They resembled a large, iridescent soap bubble, all but transparent. Spock was surprised at the difference the bond made - where his mind had been shadowed, it was now softly illuminated. His shields were glowing from within with the warmth of Jim's katra.

That was the next thing on his list, deciding what to do about the fledgling bond.

It wasn't exactly an easy call. There were logical benefits to all the different options he could think up. His emotional Human side was screaming bloody murder at the thought of ripping out his very own mental night-light and plunging himself back into the loneliness. Spock tried to drown it out and focused on every alternative he could think of.

Keeping the bond obviously wasn't an option. It was useful, true, but invading the mind of another sentient being without its express consent was high on the list of things that would get you a formal challenge or exile. In his case, there were extenuating circumstances. He'd done it to save Kirk's life, and that he'd only read emotions. Kirk probably wouldn't press charges, even if he'd been picking up direct thoughts, but even so, it was a grave violation of Kirk's privacy.

So that left three options. Spock could rip the bond out right now, forcing Kirk from his subconscious. This particular choice, he discarded almost immediately. He was not a trained healer, so the process would at best be crude and at worst highly dangerous. Ripping out the bond would take out a piece of his katra, creating an even greater void. Spock winced away from the thought. Kirk would not be as affected as he would, though the risk of a temporary depression was severe. Furthermore, destroying the bond in that way would effectively destroy any chance they had at rebuilding their familial bond. The thought that their tentative friendship might be lost seemed a horrible waste. They'd spent far too long circling each other, prodding at defenses, to throw that away. If he couldn't respect Kirk, he couldn't work with him. That would mean transferring away from the Enterprise and leaving Jim with only McCoy to protect him from his more insane schemes. Immediate bond amputation would be an extremely counterproductive solution.

There was the ritual of Kolinahr, the complete eradication of all emotion. It would take years to complete, but it would neatly end the void, his bonds and the internal struggle Spock faced every day. He would become a monk, serene as the mountains he would live amongst, devoting his days to meditation and study.

He couldn't abide the thought. It would be a betrayal of his mother's memory, a complete rejection of both her love for him and her choices in life.

Finally, there was the new Vulcan colony. Spock estimated that less than twenty qualified healers had survived, but any of them would be able to sever the bond between him and Kirk. The side effects would be considerably milder than if he attempted the procedure himself, although the chance that he would deteriorate beyond his original condition remained. T'Priah was several weeks away by ship, but he could shield the bond quite successfully until then. Both he and Kirk would be examined by a jury to determine whether Spock had overstepped his boundaries then the bond would be cut. Simple, logical and effective - except for the part where another Vulcan would search through Kirk's mind, exposing his every thought and memory, just because Spock hadn't been able to come up with another solution. Kirk was _his_ mate, and if anyone tried to harm him, Spock would drink in their scent until he could track them to even the farthest planet and then -

Spock blinked in surprise. Shields. Right.

The smoky smell of the incense was thinning, and Spock sucked in a mouthful. It tasted like spices and home. There was one other thing he could do. He was still young, and relatively unpracticed in the psychic arts. He had better technique than most Vulcans his age, a result of the constant war against his human emotions. While he hadn't had the opportunity to study the higher levels of control and manipulation, he definitely meant to do so when he had the time - time which he presumed he'd find sometime during the next century. Instead of making any rash decisions, he could talk to his older self.

Ambassador Spock might know of some way to sever the bond that did not require Kirk to be subject to a mindmeld. The more he thought about it, the more logical the idea seemed. Surely, the other Spock must have discovered the extraordinary compatibility he shared with Kirk. After all, he'd been the one to set him on a collision course with the captain, supposedly for the sake of friendship. There was a high probability that other Spock - he still wasn't quite sure how to title his alternate self - had found himself in a position similar to the one he was in. Perhaps there was some way to resolve the problem that Spock had overlooked.

Satisfied with this course of action, he rose and extinguished the candles. He packed away his things, absentmindedly rubbing at his temples. When his floor was clear, he curled up on his bed and fell into a deep, exhausted sleep.

* * *

><p>In the morning, Spock tried to call his alternate self. He achieved only a screen full of flickers. The communication nets were, for some reason, down. He spent twenty frustrated minutes trying to repair them from his data portal then went to find Scotty.<p>

The ship's engineer was hanging halfway out of a Jefferies' tube, trying to access an awkwardly placed panel. The angle of his spine reminded Spock of exponential growth. Spock clasped his hands behind his back.

"Do you require assistance?" he asked.

Scotty started and righted himself. He dropped to the ground with a thud, landing on his feet.

"Nah, I'm good. It's good ta have ye back, Commander." He patted Spock congenially on the shoulder. "Between you and me, I wasn't sure we could do it. But this fine lady came throu' in the end, and ye're safe and sound, now."

"The Enterprise."

"Yea," Scotty sounded as though that should have been obvious. "'Course, I had ter make a few wee modifications, but it all worked out jus' splendid."

Spock raised an eyebrow. "To what, exactly, are you referring?"

"Beamin' yer up, o'course. So there we were, ions flyin' six ways to Sunday, and Chekov's yellin' something about organ displacement, so we cannae bring yer up without yer spleen endin' up in yer ear." Scotty shrugged casually and began packing his instruments away. "Figured it out, tho, we did."

Spock grabbed a length of cable from the pile of equipment and began rolling it together neatly. "I am going to make the assumption that the captain's spleen is not currently located anywhere but the left upper quadrant of his abdomen."

Scotty looked mortally offended. "I scramble my mornin' eggs, not my superior officers."

"Naturally. I was merely enquiring for the sake of certainty."

"Ye can tell yer certainty that the Enterprise made some grand sacrifices to save her Captain." Scotty sounded both proud and melancholy, and Spock silently handed over the rolled cable. Scotty hefted it onto his shoulder and patted the Jefferies tube fondly. "She'll be alrigh'. Gonna need some new parts when we dock, but I'll patch her righ' up."

Spock's misgivings, which had been founded upon the discovery that the spare vat of coolant in engineering was being used to brew a whiskey-white liquor fusion, grew. "Did these modifications by any chance overlap with our communication equipment?"

Scotty shrugged. "Wired th' transporters to th' long-distance link. They weren't bein' affected by the storm. We used the beamin' technology to lock on to yer heartbeats, and transported yer data over the commlink. They've got righ' fine filters to make sure messages don' come out all a'shambles. Figured if it'd work for comms, it'd work for ye. Burnt the circuits righ' out. T'was damn brilliant, tho'."

Well, that explained a lot. Spock's palms were itching to have a look at the new wiring, but he had more pressing concerns. _Organ displacement_, he thought.

"I see. I anticipate your report on the matter. You have my gratitude for your inventiveness in coming to our aid."

Scotty waved him off. "Don'tcha worry. I'd'a done it anyway sometime for th' challenge."

This wasn't overly comforting, in Spock's opinion. "How long do you estimate the repairs will take?"

"I cannae do more than clear up tha mess. Filters are jus' lovely, but she's gonna need new C-76 trichtium conduits b'fore I can get her runnin' righ' and proper."

The nearest place where such conduits would be available was Earth, almost three weeks away. Having no way to contact his elder self, Spock set out for Sickbay.

Kirk was still asleep. McCoy, however, was awake and present. He was sitting in his office, door open so he could keep an eye on his patient. There was a glass on his desk, half filled with whiskey. Beside it, his PADD was glowing unattended. McCoy appeared to be ignoring it in favor of some thick medical text. Spock slipped in silently, and examined the bruise he had last seen on Kirk's cheek. It had faded a little, from lavender to sea green, and his color seemed slightly better. His breathing was even.

"I was wondering when you'd show up," McCoy called. He rolled his eyes at Spock's expression. "Oh, don't worry, he's out for the count. Enjoy the peace while you can, he'll be getting into fresh trouble soon enough." McCoy gestured at a seat on the other side of his desk. "Come here, mother hen. I need to check your head."

Spock sat on the edge of the seat, not entirely comfortable with the expression on McCoy's face as he shone a small flashlight into each of Spock's eyes in turn, and ran a tricorder across his forehead.

"I am perfectly healthy," he hedged. "I can sense disruptions in my body's regular functions, and I can assure you -"

"Yeah, yeah," McCoy waved him off. "You're a special snowflake, alright."

"Most illogical. I have nothing in common with a frozen ice-crystal besides our mutual component of water."

"You know damn well what I mean. So -" McCoy leaned back a little. "-you were showing all the symptoms of a severe concussion when they brought you in. Only, when they scanned you, there was no physical evidence of one. Isn't that funny?"

Spock raised an eyebrow. "I do not find the prospect of possible neurological damage humorous."

"Well, neither do I. Do you know who _did_ have a concussion?"

"I assume there is a point to this exercise?"

McCoy gave Spock the sort of grin a le-matya would give a small, wounded bird. He slid the book he was holding across the table at Spock. The cover had writing in both Standard and Vulcan. Carefully, Spock picked it up and examined it.

"This is Doctor M'Benga's dissertation on Vulcan anatomy. It is partially inaccurate but nonetheless an impressive feat for a human."

Spock slid it back, maintaining a neutral expression. "Perhaps you have reached the part where Doctor M'Benga describes the formidable strength of our skulls. It is, after all, only logical that Vulcans evolved defenses for their most formidable asset. Or perhaps you have only read as far as the chapter where the honored doctor admits that the regenerative abilities of the Vulcan mind is something that he, despite his extensive experience, does not fully comprehend? I assume that either of these passages could account for your missing concussion."

"Oh, I know you're thick-skulled, alright," said McCoy. "I haven't read that far yet. I'm still working on the chapter where M'Benga describes sympathy pain as a common reaction in bonded Vulcans. Pain is a neural condition. Sort of like a concussion, actually."

"I am aware of this. And I would ask you to stop your enquiries there."

McCoy's smile evaporated, and he leaned forward over his desk to look Spock in the eye. "The hell I will. You're going to tell me just what's going on here. First, you collapse because your mind is tuned to Frequency: Jim then you _growl_ at me, and now you've got a phantom concussion. I want to know just what you're doing with my friend's head."

Spock glanced at Kirk's cot. He would have preferred to talk to Jim about this first and to mention it to McCoy in passing in a couple of year's time, if at all. Perhaps a bit of information would discourage the doctor from continuing to dig on his own.

"It is to do with Vulcan biology," he said.

McCoy groaned. "That had better not be-"

"Our instincts and emotions are strong. In the times before Surak, blood feuds were common, and the clans were constantly at war. We developed a type of empathic connection to our family, spouses and friends. It prevented the species from dying out completely. Most of these bonds are weak. I can sense my Vulcan acquaintances with slightly more clarity than I can humans, but none of my bonds extend beyond a vague sense of presence."

McCoy cupped his head in his hands. "Goddamn it, Spock. I'm not drunk enough for this. The book _did_ say bondmates had a stronger connection. Starfleet admiralty told you to get along with Jim, not elope with him." His voice sounded slightly queasy. "I'm going to kill you both once Jim's ok."

"I - excuse me?" Spock was aware that his eyebrows had gone beyond an incredulous raise and were threatening to move into his hairline altogether. "I am _not_ married to the captain. Captain Kirk has a mind that is compatible with my own, and therefore I was able to detect his presence more clearly." He injected all the frigid offense he could summon into his voice. "My shields are understandably weakened by the constant onslaught of this crew's emotionalism. This is unfortunate, but the blame can hardly be placed with anyone. However, this weakening enabled me to pick up the captain's location. My shields are now recovered, and I cannot detect him anymore."

McCoy still looked skeptical.

Spock sighed internally. "What circumstances," he asked, his tone patient, "led you to believe I would elope with the captain? I admit that our relationship has improved, but the captain's character is hardly such that he would engage in matrimony, much less with a male. I was, until recently, in a committed relationship with Lieutenant Uhura. It seems quite a leap."

Rummaging in his desk drawer, McCoy pulled out a hypospray. "I know Jim and his crazy antics. There's no such thing as a leap where he's concerned. Should'a known you were too busy being a computer, though," he admitted. "Here, tilt your head."

The doctor injected Spock's neck and inspected his forehead once again with a critical expression. "You'll be fine," he said. "Now, shoo. I have work to do. And stay away from Jim's brain."

Spock nodded coldly, and checked Kirk's vitals on the way out. He resolved to speak to him as soon as he'd had the opportunity to consult his older self.

_Nicely phrased_, he thought to himself. _Not a lie in the entire conversation. When exactly are you planning on telling the doctor that, by Vulcan standards, you are now engaged to Jim?_

* * *

><p>It was a further two days before Kirk woke up. His first order of business was to commandeer a set of crutches and limp to the memorial service of the three ensigns killed on the away mission. Most of the crew were gathered to pay their respects, and those who had been close to the deceased held short speeches. Despite the brevity of the service, Kirk's face took on alarming shade of gray, and his functional leg wobbled with exhaustion. Spock stood at his shoulder, ready to catch him in case his determination failed.<p>

When everyone else had finished talking, Jim stepped forward, commanding the attention of the room.

"I wish I were good with words. Then I could do justice to the courage of these three officers. They gave their lives in the discovery of the unknown, and there is hardly a worthier death to be had." He met the eyes of each crew member in turn, in a silent promise. "What we can't honor with words, we will honor with actions. We will remember their sacrifice and that there are things worth the price we pay for them."

As the service ended, Spock gripped Kirk's elbow, holding him upright while the crew filed out of the room. Uhura stopped and kissed Kirk's cheek briefly.

"I'm glad you survived. Now get better so I can kick your ass for not bringing me planetside."

Jim flashed her his brightest grin. "I'll take you planetside any day, honey."

She cuffed his shoulder. "Jerkwad. Just remember that I have first dibs. You can't let anyone else beat you up until I've had my turn."

Spock and Kirk watched her leave. "You're an idiot," Kirk finally said.

"Affirmative."

"Walk with me?"

Spock didn't comment on the fact that Kirk was hardly likely to walk without him. Carrying most of Kirk's weight, he managed to lead the captain down the corridor to sickbay. Kirk cast a wistful glance in the direction of his quarters but allowed Spock to drag him right past them without comment.

"How are you holding up?" he asked instead. "You went menhir on me during Giotto's eulogy for the security officers. Are you alright?"

"I am in excellent health."

He looked up at Spock with a tired expression. "Look, Spock. My head really hurts, so I'm not going to try and couch this in logic-speak for you. You did what you could. I feel horrible about ordering those people on a mission that led to their deaths, and I don't suppose it'll get better in time, but at least we both did everything possible to save them."

"I did not. However, my lapse will not be repeated."

He gave Spock an incredulous glance. "Bones told me that you let me in your head so you could run several miles cross-country in time to drag me out of a fatal geological clusterfuck. You risked your life going after Ensign M'Lin. I'd like to know what lapse you think there is to repeat."

Spock paused. "Are you familiar with the teachings of Surak?"

"Yeah. Be logical, square peg in the square hole; life is a journey. How about Nietzsche? Would me telling you that in your case no consolation is necessary console you?"

Frowning, Spock tapped the door to sickbay. It slid open with a pneumatic hiss. "I see that lending you those books was an error."

"Absolutely. One of these days I'll turn into you and start regurgitating the thesaurus instead of speaking." Kirk propped his crutches against the wall and collapsed onto his cot. Sliding up so that his back was against the wall, he gestured for Spock to sit at the foot of the bed. "Seriously, though. What lapse? Because from where I'm sitting, it looks more like above and beyond the call of duty."

He was looking at Spock with such earnestness that, for a moment, Spock was tempted to believe it.

"The first statement of Surak reads: 'Cast out fear. There is no room for anything else until you cast out fear.' When M'Lin was on the ledge I - hesitated." Spock studied the sheets intensely. "I was reminded of my mother," he finished quietly.

Jim stared at him for a moment.

Then he reached out and threw his arms around Spock.

Spock barely had time to brace himself before he was wrapped up in an emotional, exhausted Jim. He could feel the cold tip of a nose burrowing into the crook of his neck and soft hair brushing against his cheek. Jim's hands were flat against his back. _Empathy, affection, understanding_. Spock pried Jim off him, trying to avoid further skin contact. Jim, as he had demonstrated before, was exceptionally good at projecting. His emotions would be more discreet if he were announcing over the ship's loud speakers.

Spock cleared his throat. "I understand that this is a common gesture in Terran friendships."

"Oh. Yeah. Um - sorry about that, Spock." Jim grimaced. "You know me. Cultural differences go in one ear and right out the other. What is the appropriate Vulcan gesture for saying 'I apologize for invading your personal space'?"

"There is no offense where none is taken."

"Right. Surak."

Spock stood, falling into his familiar posture. Hands clasped behind his back, shoulders back. Jim was plainly tired, with raccoon circles around his eyes, but he also looked - better. There was a spark in his expression, like a fuse had been lit somewhere in his head.

"Perhaps you should endeavor to get some rest," Spock suggested.

Jim nodded, creeping under the covers. Spock was reminded of a small boy, lazily curling in upon himself after a long day. An unexpected wave of fondness came over him. He discovered a chair next to one of the supply closets and buried himself in the PADD detailing the chemical components of Sickbay's stock medication. After a few minutes, Jim's breath evened out, and Spock relaxed a little. He glanced at McCoy's office, which was empty. Rapidly, in case one of the nurses came in, Spock covered the distance to the bed. He brushed his fore- and index fingers against Jim's cheekbone, where Uhura had kissed him shortly before.

"Goodnight, Jim," he said.

* * *

><p>The Enterprise set course for First Spacedock, the unimaginatively named dock in geosynchronous orbit with San Francisco, for repairs. The trip took two weeks, and Spock took over the captain's duties as well as his own for most of that time. Kirk's concussion was healing nicely, according to McCoy, but the doctor still wouldn't let Jim anywhere near an electronic interface, or even a small-print book.<p>

"The real danger here," Kirk informed Spock one afternoon, "is that I go out of my mind with boredom before Bones has a chance to fix it."

Spock privately agreed and interceded on his behalf in the ongoing debate with McCoy about whether Andorian poker was an acceptable pastime for recovering patients. Between them, Spock hoped that Scotty and Sulu would be able to challenge Kirk enough to keep him from outright rebellion. Still, Kirk threw himself into the rehabilitating exercises for his leg with reckless enthusiasm. Spock worked double shifts, briefed Kirk on the running of the ship and occasionally helped him with his exercises. When Sickbay was finally empty and a private conversation would be possible, both of them were all but falling asleep.

It didn't help matters any that Spock was having trouble sleeping. He'd wake up at least once a night, cold and shivering. Normally, his shields would filter out dreams - his subconscious would still digest what it had absorbed during the day, as it did in humans, but the shields should prevent him from being aware of the dreams. They should be just another facet of his emotional side, buried and unable to trouble him. The fact that they weren't offered two possibilities; either Spock's shields were getting weaker, or his subconscious was getting stronger. Neither was a pleasant option.

The dreams were never clear - just mosaic fragments of feeling associated with blurry scenes. He'd try to remember them in the morning, to shield them for the future, but even with eidetic Vulcan memory, he could only bring back patches of the whole. For unknown reasons, the whole picture was blocked. After the fifth night of broken sleep, Spock placed a datapad on his dresser. If he could figure out what he was dreaming, perhaps he could figure out why. It was plausible that his dreams were reaching him for the same reason he'd picked up Kirk's psychic mayday. If his instinct for self-protection ganged up with his id, they could overcome his shields. That raised the question - what was important enough that his well-repressed pre-Surak self would go to the trouble of fighting back just to tell him?

A week and a half after the memorial service, after another partially remembered dream, Spock showered, dressed in his science blues, and found a stylus to lay beside the datapad before going off to deal with the day's work. He managed to cram five disasters in before lunch, ranging from Scotty's relatively harmless discovery of an loose bolt in a cooling tank to the mutation and subsequent escape of a Rigellian Carvervine from the hydroponics labs. Spock had just gathered a green salad and a glass of juice from the cafeteria replicators and was looking forward to a few minutes off his feet, when his commlink blinked.

_I have seventeen detailed escape plans written on the back of my breakfast napkin_, read the incoming message, _and I don't care if I can't be around the bridge instruments. Did you know that the air-ducts of the Enterprise are structurally sound enough to hold the weight of one medium size human?_

It wasn't signed. Spock gave the commlink a very dirty look and relocated his salad to sickbay.

Kirk had commandeered McCoy's desk. He was prodding around pieces on a Terran 2D chessboard, which he had set up next to the dataportal. He was biting his lower lip absentmindedly, completely intent on the board. Spock knocked on McCoy's open office door, and Kirk looked up at him with a delighted smile.

"Spock! Have a seat. Oh, you brought food - sorry about pulling you away from your lunch, but I was thinking -"

"Using your commlink for anything but emergencies will only aggravate your concussion."

Kirk had the grace to look sheepish. "Well, yeah. But I spent all morning learning the rules, and I thought you might like a game. I mean, it's the sort of thing you'd enjoy - lots of planning and logic." He looked vaguely worried. "You know how to play chess, right?"

Spock placed his salad at the corner of the desk. McCoy was very particular about sickbay hygiene, but judging by the sandwich wrapper in his recycling bin it was limited to the actual bay. Taking lunch on the doctor's desk would probably earn him nothing but a few barbed comments and a reprimand. Fishing a neatly folded napkin out of his pocket, he pushed it at Kirk.

"I am familiar with the Terran version of chess," said Spock.

"Terran? There are other variants?" Kirk examined the napkin curiously. It was folded into a neat package, and he unwrapped it. In the center, framed by complex equations scribbled directly onto the thin paper, was a cookie. Kirk's smile grew a bit wider. "Ooh, chocolate. Bones is going to kill you." He sounded almost admiring.

"I try," Spock answered drily.

Kirk prodded the napkins with a finger. "What's up with the equations?"

"The structural integrity of the Enterprise ventilation system is, by my calculations, able to adequately support 85,6 Terran kilos of mass before collapsing. However, the ventilation system is subject to regular influxes of air in temperatures unfit for human respiration. The fat- and monosaccharide-abundant pastry is not in any way connected to this fact."

He laughed. "Sneaky Vulcan."

Spock gave Kirk his best 'Who, me?' expression and helped himself to his salad. Despite the fact that it was all synthetically rearranged atoms, it tasted fresh and had a nutty, bitter tang.

"Don't worry, you're still the best," Kirk said in an offhand manner and took a bite of the cookie. "So - chess."

Spock picked the white queen from the board, rolling it between his fingers. Chess had been one of the aspects of human culture Vulcans had adopted without question. They'd renamed it Tches and introduced it in elementary-level schooling as an interesting, if antiquated, lesson in tactics. Shortly thereafter, Vulcans were banned from competing in Terran chess tournaments. The Vulcans had not concerned themselves overmuch with that and devoted themselves to developing a more tactically relevant version of the game. What they came up with was three-dimensional chess. Instead of the traditional model of a battlefield, which had only two dimensions, as it took place on the flat desert sands, they came up with a model for ship combat in space. The fleets would not be bound by traditional concepts of direction, and therefore, neither was the chessboard.

Spock had achieved mastery of the game at the ripe age of eight and had subsequently abandoned 2D chess for the more versatile 3D version. The rules for three-dimensional chess were less restrictive, and therefore they would probably be better suited to Jim Kirk's particular brand of tactics.

"You have engaged in this activity before?" Spock asked.

"Nope," Kirk answered cheerfully, popping the 'p'. "But Sulu explained the basics to me, and I've been playing against myself most of the morning. You are going down in flames."

Spock decided that while three-dimensional chess was less relevant, Kirk would profit from practice in a less complicated environment. The added restrictions were a fringe benefit. Perhaps Kirk would learn something.

An hour later, Spock's extended lunch break was over. Kirk wasn't smirking anymore. Spock had won three out of three games, which did not come as a surprise to either of them. What had surprised Spock was the margin of his wins.

The first game, Kirk had spent the entire match ribbing Spock about his cautious, logical moves. He'd lost horrendously.

The second game, Kirk employed a random, bizarre tactic, moving pieces seemingly without rhyme or reason. He'd lost horrendously.

The third game, Kirk had been suspiciously silent and continued his non sequitur-strategy from the second game. He'd eradicated over half of Spock's pieces before Spock finally managed to eke out a win.

No, Kirk wasn't smirking. He was looking like that one time Spock had seen him high on Orion pheromones, but that was another issue altogether.

"That was... fun." Kirk sounded vaguely surprised. "It looked sort of boring back on Earth, and I thought it would be good for passing time, but it's actually..."

"Fascinating?" Spock supplied.

"Yeah. I want a rematch after your shift ends, if you're not too tired. I'll bet you a bunch of paperwork that I can prologue the massacre of my helpless king for over an hour."

Spock thought this over. "Negative. You would simply think for half an hour between moves. It would hardly be an ethical way to delegate paperwork to your second in command."

"So we set a thirty-second time limit for thinking. You're just scared you're going to lose."

"The statistical probability of my defeat approaches zero. You have no discernible tactic. I left you no opportunities to breach the defenses surrounding my king." Spock gathered his empty salad bowl and straightened his uniform a little as he stood. Jim was still smiling lazily, stretched out in his chair like a cat in the sun. Spock wasn't sure if the faint buzz below his shields was antagonism at the cocky attitude, or the bond humming over the fact that he had Jim's undivided attention.

"I create my own opportunities," said Kirk.

When Spock went to bed that night there was a new pile of paperwork on his desk awaiting inspection.

* * *

><p><em>He is standing on a black field that stretches into the endless. Over him is the dome of the sky, gray and heavy as steel. Columns of smoke winding upwards from the distant bonfires are pillars that keep the clouds from falling. The smell of it all stings in his nose. It's not just the burning grass but the blood in the air - the bodies they are cremating.<em>

_He looks around himself with glazed eyes. So this is death: the end of all hope, the brink where humanity looks, and finds nothing but an impenetrable darkness. He can't run. The sky is descending in a blaze of light._

_They are lining up before him. Everyone he loves. The fire licks at their legs, but they don't seem to notice. He throws himself forwards, running to them, desperate to reach them before it is all too late. Look! He yells at them. No sound comes out. Run! One of the figures staggers forward to meet him, his face impossibly lined, a dying man's face._

_He reaches out but finds only glass. He's cut off. The figures are disappearing, fading into the distance. They are going, and he can't follow. He throws himself at the glass again and again, desperate to break through. If only he could reach them. The flames from the bonfires have spread, and he is now standing on a small patch of grass in a sea of orange and black. All around him, the field is voraciously consumed. Is it grass or wheat? The crops reach to his knees, waving and golden, switching back and forth between flame and fare. He's collapsing from the inside. He's a bright shell with a rotten core, empty as night. In a final effort to touch the figures, he places a commanding hand against the glass. Break, he orders. Shatter._

_But he can't reach through it, the fire devours him, and he's gone._

Spock woke up cold to the bone and shivering uncontrollably. He swallowed rapidly a few times to quell his nausea then ordered the lights on to a low setting. His nightmares were getting more vivid. He forced himself to write down what he could remember in the datapad with all the detail he could recall. It was five-seventeen in the morning; he was due for Alpha shift in approximately two hours. Spock didn't feel like going back to sleep, so he stripped off his loose robe, which smelled like fear and sweat. Vulcans were a desert species - they didn't sweat, to preserve water. Spock had inherited the ability to exude water from his pores from his mother, though he lost little water by human standards.

He allowed himself one illogical, wasteful shower of 5.4 minutes duration – a Terran shower, not his customary sonic ones. The water molded his hair to his skull, exposing the tips of his ears directly to the warm sprays. If he felt very carefully, he could sense the slow dispersion of heat throughout his body. Cold blood from his heart pumped out to his ears and the fine veins just below his skin; warm blood trickled back to his heart. Once he was comfortable, he tried to force more memories out of the dream. The most important bits hadn't been what he'd seen - sight was usually blurry and unreliable in nightmares, only there because the brain was used to functioning with it. He needed words for what it had felt like. The human emotions that led to his nightmares needed names to be classified and dealt with accordingly.

He came up with a blank, but it was only to be expected. To be out of touch with his feelings was usually a victory. Standard was hardly the language to go about describing them in, either. The meaning of the words became diluted if they were misapplied on a regular basis. Uhura had expressed love both for him and a pair of aesthetically pleasing shoes. McCoy often professed his deep and abiding hate for Jim. Then there were the words which should be in a different class altogether - nightmare was a passive objectified noun, not the gut-wrenchingly vivid _action_ Spock had experienced. Chess was challenging, compelling and shouldn't need another verb's help to be an act. Human words matched human emotions - unexpected, ubiquitous and uncontrollable. It was more efficient to adapt to the language of the ship, and thinking in Standard could save valuable milliseconds in a crisis. He hadn't thought in Vulcan in months. Maybe it was time to start.

The Vulcan language distinguished between two main classes of verbs, the strong verbs and the weak verbs. There was a reason for that. _Touch_, and all its connotations, was a strong verb. So were _desire, destroy, burn, kill_. Since Surak, many of those words had been gathering dust at the edges of the Vulcan vocabulary. The cobwebs were perfunctorily swept off in poetry and history lessons, but they were rarely used for their intended purpose.

Spock tried a handful, waiting to see if they would strike a chord. He came up with a blank: a pointless exercise. He left the shower, dried off and got dressed. The datapad was still lying on his nightstand with its half-completed entry, and Spock turned it over in his hands. Nyota would have words. She always did - short, concise ones, saying what she needed to and no more. He couldn't go to her with this, though. There were too many explanations involved, and besides, he couldn't just show up on her doorstep and demand that she start listing random sensations until he stumbled over the odd feeling pervading his dream. Illogically, Spock found that he wished to do it anyway. He hadn't been to her quarters since the amiable termination of their relationship, and he found himself missing the ease with which they had conversed. Uhura understood him and genuinely cared about him. They were alike in many ways, but it was the differences he missed the most.

The way she'd sigh happily when she took off her boots in the evening and wiggle her toes like she'd only just discovered them. He missed the warm, heavy smell of sleeping human. On the bridge, she would construct sentences like knives or needles, sharp, to a point, efficient at their intended purpose. With him, she'd built towers of frosting. He hoped that eventually, they'd become close enough friends that they could talk easily again. Spock exhaled deeply, clearing his thoughts, and left for Engineering. They would reach spacedock around lunchtime, and if he lent a hand in the preparation, they could have their long distance commlink fixed within 4.7 hours.

His datapad he left behind on his bed, half filled page upwards, a very disjointed description of a dream, and then the words _to abandon_.

* * *

><p><em>Constructive criticism will get you your very own stack of paperwork and your choice of a Replicator!Chocolate cookie or Faux!Salad. :)<em>


	3. San Francisco

**A/N: **_So, I realize there's been a gap between this and the second chapter, timewise; I hope the fact that this chapter is somewhat longer than the others makes up for it. Thanks to everyone who has commented, it absolutely makes my day :) Also, it's worth noting that a two-week pause between chapters really isn't worth worrying about - I posted the story, so I promise I'll stick around and finish it. _

_Extra-super-many thank you's to Dizdayn, who continues to make writing this even more fun, whilst simultaneously teaching me the wonders of the common comma and other such necessities. _

_Star Trek belongs to Paramount Viacom, Gene Roddenberry and whomever else may have claim. _

* * *

><p><strong>III. San Francisco<strong>

There would not be time for an extended shore leave.

This was the first news the crew of the Enterprise received upon docking. The first actual words over the old-fashioned short-range viewsceen were Admiral Komack's, and along the lines of 'We were worried something might have happened, since your commlink appeared to be down, and why the hell didn't you try harder to contact us? This, Captain, is your fault.'

Kirk, understandably, was furious that Starfleet had known their commlink was off yet elected not to send help. Spock could tell by the way his hands curled into fists. The flagship of the Federation was an experiment, a gamble on an untried crew. If something went wrong with that experiment, precious resources would not be wasted trying to salvage it. Spock made a note to ask Kirk if he had reached the same conclusion when Admiral Komack wasn't on the viewscreen. Spock wanted to keep Kirk alive, and an efficient way to do it would be to make sure that he was removed from active duty or sent to a calm outpost well within Federation territory. Unfortunately, Kirk would retain his uncanny gift for finding trouble, and Spock wouldn't be there to watch over him. Removed from the Enterprise, Kirk would also be miserable, and to Spock, that was beginning to count for something.

So the first officer held his tongue while the admiral explained that the Enterprise would ship out for the Callisto system in the morning. The flagship of the Federation was needed for a first contact mission. Two ambassadors were to go with them to manage the negotiations. That would be all, thank you, Captain.

"Yes," said Kirk.

"Yes?" asked Komack.

"Yes, sir," said Kirk.

"If you lose contact with Starfleet again, for _whatever_ reason, you will not travel all the way to Earth without a functioning comm. You will seek out the nearest Federation outpost whether it is on your route or not. Maintaining contact with Starfleet at all times is your top priority. Is that understood, Captain?"

"Yes, sir."

The screen flickered out, and the bridge was silent.

"Go enjoy yourselves," Kirk ordered. "You have the rest of the day off, and I won't expect to see you until nine tomorrow." Then he walked to the turbolift and punched the button with a bit more force than necessary. McCoy and Spock joined him in the narrow tube.

As soon as the doors had slid shut, Kirk punched viciously at the wall. It didn't budge, and Kirk swore colorfully. McCoy glowered at him as he cradled his hand.

"Real mature, Jim."

Kirk gritted his teeth. "The brass can be so fucking patronizing. We save the Earth, and now we can't even handle a simple mission without adult supervision. They're treating us like kids - like we're too stupid to do anything. I wish I had a bit of Red Matter, so I could put it in Archer's cornflakes."

"The technology required to adequately contain the substance is decades away." Spock did not think it was a subject to joke about, and usually, neither did Kirk. That more than anything was a testimony to how furious the captain actually was.

"Invent it," Kirk snapped. "I want Archer sucked into an alternate dimension. Maybe he'll have to deal with Nero himself in that one."

"Captain -" Spock hedged.

"No, forget it, Spock. You think the same thing, sometimes. I just - know. Won't let me beam down without citing regulations, won't let me out of sight. Like I'm too dumb to know what'll harm me. Christ! Starfleet wouldn't even help us. For all they knew, we we dying out here, unable to communicate - wanting to micromanage our every movement - what if I have the choice between reestablishing communications or getting to proper medical facilities? What then?"

"Captain." Spock caught Kirk's eye.

"Save it," Kirk spat and tore himself away. "I need a drink."

McCoy patted Spock once on the shoulder on his way out of the lift. "Well done," he said. "Jim's completely calm, now." Spock watched him follow Kirk down the corridor.

* * *

><p>Spock didn't have anyone he cared to see on Earth. His father and his alternate self were on T'Priah. He was not on terms, let alone cordial ones, with the remains of his mother's family. His former students were dead or aboard the Enterprise. He considered beaming down to study the plant specimens of Golden Gate Park but discarded the thought almost immediately as being wasteful and selfish. He did not have anyone he cared to see on Earth.<p>

Instead, Spock headed for Engineering. Two of Scotty's technicians were replacing the burnt wiring for the commlink with the shiny new coils that had been beamed up as soon as communication was reestablished. Spock dismissed them firmly.

"Thank you, Officers, that will be all. I shall personally oversee that the installation of the commlink."

Ensign Corell, whose black hair stuck out all over his head like the spines of a porcupine, protested. "But Mr. Scott said-"

"My extensive training in subspace communication and quantum field theory more than qualifies me to conduct these repairs."

"Thank you, sir." The other, Ensign Weaver, grabbed Corell by the elbow and led him away. She muttered something into the man's ear. Spock thought it might have been '_don't look a gift horse in the mouth_,' but human expressions were notoriously hard to understand.

"I am merely optimizing the distribution of manpower." Spock informed the empty room.

Repairing the commlink took all afternoon. It was pleasant to have the ship almost completely to himself. Spock found the social aspects of his job highly satisfying but he also enjoyed peace and quiet. A break from the bustle of everyday life aboard the Enterprise was valued. He kneeled on the metal walkway, twisting and adjusting, trying to get the pieces of the puzzle to fit together. In another universe, he might be satisfied with intellectual and manual labor in a less dangerous setting. Was this what life on T'Priah was like for his other self?

When he'd finished, he brushed himself off and returned to his quarters through the upper hallways. The Earth had revolved in its orbit, and the sun was now slanting through the windows at a different angle, warming the floor beneath him.

His quarters were likewise pleasantly heated. Spock stowed the datapad and stylus lying on his bed in his bedside drawer, washed his face and hands of engine grease and changed into a fresh tunic. It was a simple black one for off-duty occasions. He did not wish to appear too formal. With only the slightest hesitation, he turned on his personal commlink and called his alternate universe counterpart. He was not wholly surprised to find other-Spock at his desk. It was eight in the evening on T'Priah, and he knew his own mind very well.

Ambassador Spock settled back in his chair. It was terrifying on an instinctive level.

Over the past year, the ambassador had aged a great deal. His hair was now almost completely silver and it looked as frail and unearthly as gossamer. Deep furrows were etched into his skin and when he moved, Spock could see his bones readjust. He was horrifically fragile, hovering in his chair as though he were light enough to simply blow away. It was a powerful reminder of his own mortality.

Ambassador Spock's face lit up upon recognizing his caller, and Spock recognized a repressed smile. He lifted his hand in the customary Ta'al, a gesture which the ambassador returned.

"_Sochya_, Spock. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Spock had expected faint traces of emotion from the ambassador. More than he would choose to display himself but a great deal less than a human would. Most elderly Vulcans changed in this manner. They would either soften a little, confident enough in a lifetime of logic to allow faint glimpses of illogic to show through the facade, or harden beyond recognition. Spock had always hoped that through his training he would become a hardener. Given the fact that his elder self cheerfully admitted to emotion in his first sentence it appeared that his hopes were in vain. Spock wasn't sure whether to take insult. The ambassador had inadvertently accused both of them of being an emotional being, the sort of comment you did not make on Vulcan without being prepared to back it up with your lirpa and House honor. Spock tolerated McCoy and Kirk's teasing. They were humans, and not bound by Vulcan codes of conduct. The ambassador knew better.

Spock decided to let the human comment slide. Fighting with himself would be a futile exercise, and he would greatly benefit from information which the ambassador had to offer.

"I wish to speak to you. There have been some - disturbances. I trust I am not inconveniencing you in your work?" The desk at which the ambassador was sitting was piled high with datapads and papers. Spock could make out the corner of a karyotype under a stack, and a small tray holding various saplings balanced precariously at the top of another.

The ambassador raised an eyebrow. "Hardly. Circumstances have been kind enough to provide me with an overabundance of it. I doubt it will spoil while I speak to one who concerns me." His eyes swept over Spock's face. It was uncomfortably invasive, like the ambassador was getting far more out of his neutral expression than he should have been able to.

"You look tired, child." The ambassador said finally. "Tell me - how is the captain?"

"I am not a child." Spock decided not to answer the question immediately. He wished to broach the topic of his recent bonding upon his own terms.

"No. It is, however, the prerogative of the ancient to regard the following generations as children regardless of their age."

"A human sentiment, ambassador."

There is was again - the barely hidden warmth in the ambassador's eyes. "We are human, at least in part. What purpose would pretenses serve between us? It is a human matter you are calling to discuss, is it not?

"If it were a human matter, I could simply ask any human member of the crew for guidance." Spock did not know why he felt a compelling need to differ from the old man at the desk.

"But you would not."

"Perhaps not," Spock conceded.

"I heard you were failing to answer the Federation's attempts to communicate," said the ambassador.

"You do not seem overly burdened by our disappearance."

The ambassador's mouth quirked the slightest bit, which Spock knew was the equivalent of a shrug. "What was, is, in some form or another," he said. "It is not your destiny to die just yet, I think. There is too much left unachieved. I understand that you are to embark upon a diplomatic mission?" He paused. "I can imagine Jim would be displeased by that. Especially in light of recent events."

"The captain is rarely pleased when he is given directions." _He is not_ your _captain_, Spock thought uncharitably. _If he was yours, you would know that_. Then, realizing he was focusing on the wrong part of the comment, he frowned. "To which recent events are you referring, specifically?"

"A Klingon warbird was discovered on the edge of the Neutral Zone three days ago, 1.2 parsecs away from where the Federation lost contact with a Tellarite trawler. There is some concern within the Starfleet admiralty."

That explained some of Admiral Komack's orders, at least. Losing contact with the Enterprise during a moment where political tensions were running high - the Admiralty would have been worried. If the Enterprise had been attacked, that would have been an overt act of war. Sending ships to search uncharted territories was imprudent. Electing to wait was a choice made by bureaucrats, careful and patient. Kirk would never accept that excuse for refusing to aid the ship.

"Have the Klingons given any explanation for their presence in accorded neutral space?"

"None was expected, none was given." The ambassador tapped his desk with an elegant finger. "I suspect a clear course of action will present itself in time. For now, what is this matter you wish to speak to me about?"

"A Vulcan matter, Ambassador."

The ambassador sighed. "I would greatly appreciate if you would stop addressing me in that manner. I have not been called anything but ambassador since - for too many years. I think you and I understand each other well enough to eschew formality."

"What would you have me call you? Self? Other-I? _Sa-kai_?" The Vulcan word for brother was denoted as 'A male sharing the same, or at least one, parent as another'. By the dictionary, Spock and the ambassador were sa-kailar. They shared two parents – a truth that wasn't reality.

The ambassador's eyes gleamed. "I prefer Spock. However, you seem to be likewise inclined."

"Indeed."

"You may call me Mr. Spock, if that makes it easier to distinguish," the ambassador suggested. The title had an odd inflection - not formal, the way Spock himself was addressed on the bridge, but as though it was an endearment. Some old office that had been held for so long that the words had grown ragged and shaped themselves to the identity of the person.

Spock nodded. "Mr. Spock. What was, is." He straightened a little. "Tell me, then, have you ever invaded the mind of another without their knowledge?

"Upon several occasions, though only when it was of the utmost importance." The ambassador did his odd reading of Spock's expression once more. "You have discovered that Jim's mind is remarkably compatible with ours." There was no doubt in his voice.

"With my mind, yes." Spock corrected him. "It was imperative to his continued wellbeing that I locate him with expediency. I was unable to track him by any other means, so I initiated a low–level, mating bond. I presume something similar occurred to you?" He raised an eyebrow, challenging the other man to comment on his actions. His logic was flawless. He'd had little choice in the matter.

"My Jim 'almost died' as a regular occurrence over the many, many decades I had the pleasure of knowing him." The ambassador's tone bordered on wistful. "But yes, I did at one point initiate a low level mating bond. However, the circumstances surrounding the occasion were profoundly different, and I was, if you will forgive me, adequately shielded at the time. I did not discover what had transpired until some years later."

"You were unaware of the bond." Spock's voice was without inflection. How could he - any version of him - have been so careless?

"How familiar are you with the biology of our species?

"Intimately." Spock blinked. Oh. "How long?"

"Barring any hormonal changes brought on by your bond or the destruction of our planet - two years."

It was simultaneously better and worse than Spock had hoped. He would, apparently, not be spared the indignities of Pon Farr. However, now that he had adequate warning, he might be able to prepare. The rituals required to meditate through the fever required a good deal of practice. And if he was unable to learn something might be arranged - there used to be professionals.

He swallowed.

"T'Pring died with Vulcan," he informed the ambassador.

"I am aware of this fact. In my timeline, it was not so."

Spock had suspected as much.

The ambassador continued,"I was beset with the fever in the second year of our first tour of deep space. I returned to Vulcan, as my bond demanded, to take T'Pring for my wife. She claimed the ancient right to Kal-if-fee. The champion she chose to fight for her was Jim. She was a clever woman. She knew that if I defeated Jim, I would not have her, and Jim was much too noble to take her for his wife should he win. I begged T'Pau to let Jim go. He volunteered for the fight, believing it was the only way to save my life. I was too far gone by then to resist the primal urges.

"I believed I had killed Jim. If not for Doctor McCoy's intervention, I would have. My bond to T'Pring was broken. I was in mental agony. Then - I discovered Jim was alive. You know how compatible we are. You can imagine how easy it would be, in the pain, confusion and joy, with the vestiges of Pon Farr still in my veins, to slip - to make one small miscalculation. I did not know. Not for years. I kept my shields around what I believed to be a broken bond strong."

"What were your actions upon the discovery of the bond? How did you terminate it?" asked Spock. Years. How could he go for years without ever knowing? Even behind his mental barriers, Jim was so _bright_.

The ambassador caught his gaze and held it fast. "You are young, and prone to looking before you leap, Spock. Have you examined your mind, lately? The destruction of Vulcan has let many of us in need of the aid of a healer to restitute our shields and reconcile with the damage done. You lost a bondmate, and a planet. The destruction of a bond is no light matter, even under the best of circumstances."

_What was he saying?_ "My mind is strong. I invaded Jim's mind without permission. There can be no excuse."

"Of course not," the ambassador amended. "I will give you the advice you seek if you promise to take another piece of advice along with it."

"I will listen." Spock would make no guarantees beyond that. He found his older self unsettling - alternately understanding and persuading, giving voice to all he himself struggled to repress.

"One of the ambassadors to escort you on your diplomatic mission is a Vulcan, one of the _okash-hakausu_. A trained mind healer. He would be able to terminate the bond with minimal damage to either of you. He is quite discreet. He will not report you to the Vulcan Council. I trust that allays some of your concerns." The ambassador paused. Spock was reminded that his counterpart had also been bonded to a Kirk. The urge to protect the captain's mind was apparently a constant between universes.

"However," the ambassador continued, "you might also consider the possibility of leaving the bond as it is for the time being. You are able to shield, if not perfectly, enough to adequately block Jim's mind. Jim will continue to seek out danger, and your bond will enable you to protect him more efficiently. Pon Farr will not be an issue. Your bond is of a sufficiently low intensity that you will be able to mate with another, if you have not chosen to terminate the bond at that time."

Spock unconsciously stood, assuming his customary position; shoulders back, face the threat. He bit his tongue to quell his anger. "You would have me continue this obfuscation? I cannot. It is a violation of Jim's mind and rights. I would not demean either of us so."

"I see. That brings me to the advice I wished to give you." The ambassador leaned forward a little. "Talk to Jim. He, most of all, deserves a voice in this matter. The decision is his to make as well. I do not suggest that you continue to conceal your link, but that you discuss it openly and logically."

"That was my intention," Spock said, a little stiffly.

"Do not be so harsh on yourself."

Spock still felt the odd compulsion to differ, to argue. His future could not be set at twenty-seven. He would not end up alone at his desk, far from home. "My shields," he said, "are not adequate. I am harsh on myself because I wish to remain sane and true to the memory of my planet."

"Our planet."

"Your planet is elsewhere."

"Spock. My greatest regret in life is my inflexibility. Do not make my mistakes. We are not weak in any fashion. Your psi rating is high enough to achieve Kolinahr should that be your choice. In another age, you would have been one of the T'Lema. Whatever legacy our human heritage has bestowed upon us, it is not a weakness."

Spock took a deep breath. He'd come to himself for advice. He should not have been surprised that it was personal.

"I thank thee," he said.

The ambassador nodded in acknowledgement, and offered the Ta'al once more. "_Stariben na'sa-veh, pi'sa-kai_."

Spock terminated the conversation. _Speak to him, little brother_.

Almost automatically, he went to his drawer and found his candles. He did not set up the entire circle - he had meditated that morning, and further exercise would be superfluous. Instead, he lit only one and brought out his datapad. The dream mocked him from the pad. The ambassador had said he had the potential to become one of the T'Lema, the dreamwalkers.

In Ancient Vulcan culture, the T'Lema were psionically gifted warriors whose powers occasionally manifested in dreams. There were many theories and very little fact as to why these abilities bred true. T'Lema were extraordinary rare, even more so after Surak, where mental prowess was not determined by the ability to repress the minds of others, but how well you controlled your own. T'Lema were no longer trained. If a Vulcan dreamed, it was a failing of the principles of logic. It was another problem to add to Spock's growing list: he had unreliable human emotions, and the telepathy of a Vulcan warrior. If his shields broke, he could become extraordinarily dangerous to those surrounding him.

Spock extinguished the candle. Kirk would probably be on Earth, in some seedy establishment. In the morning, the ambassadors would arrive. He could not afford to wait any longer.

"Locate crew member Kirk, James T," he ordered the computer.

"Unable to locate," the computer replied brightly.

It did seem too much to ask that he were aboard the ship. Would it be so terrible if he used the bond one last time, to facilitate its removal? It would not mean any further intrusion into Kirk's mind, just a logical conservation of time and effort. Spock reached for the bond, coaxing a small thread of it from below his shields. As always, it was warm to the touch. Spock felt frustrated, rebellious, angry, melancholy. The bartender was looking at him weird. His drink was sweet, a girl's drink. No bite to it. He wanted to punch something.

Spock blinked. He did _not_ want to punch something.

* * *

><p>Kirk had his recently recovered leg propped up on a vacant bar stool and was watching McCoy chatting up a pretty Deltan. He was tapping his other foot in time to the music and chewing pensively on a toothpick. Presumably, there had been a cocktail onion involved at one point. Spock could not hypothesize properly, cut off from the captain as he was by a seething mass of collective epilepsy. He flattened himself against the wall to edge around the dance floor and hoped that the volume of the music would not permanently damage his sensitive hearing.<p>

Kirk shifted, and his t-shirt rode up a bit in the back to reveal a narrow strip of skin. He was less provocatively dressed than many in the room, with a pair of standard Terran jeans, a simple white t-shirt and a leather jacket. He hadn't bothered to remove his Starfleet regulation boots, which resolved the mystery of why they were always scuffed and unpolished. Nonetheless, several females appeared to be staring at him. One, drawn by the inch of Kirk's back, Spock was sure, leaned well into Kirk's personal space. From across the room, Spock mentally supplied the dialogue.

Female: You are most aesthetically pleasing. My memory is fallible, unlike that of the vulcanid species, but I do not recall having encountered you before in this location.

Kirk: I, too, find you highly attractive. I estimate that if we were ions, the sum of our electrons would equal twice the number of our outermost shell squared. It would be prudent to share parts of our physical mass.

Spock scratched out the last bit in his head and increased his pace. It did not sound like Kirk at all.

Kirk: You are pretty. Would you care to engage in sexual intercourse?

Female: I am not adverse to the idea.

What came next in that sort of scenario? He'd seen one or two romantic holovids with Nyota and borrowed a sample of that data.

Female: If you would be kind enough to bodily throw me onto the bar counter and ravish me, I would be much obliged.

Shoving a pair of Betazeds out of the way, much to their indignation, Spock finally came within earshot, and Kirk was on his feet, right in front of him. The captain was surprised to see him judging by the way he froze up. The female was sitting at the bar determinately not looking at them. Spock revised his theory.

"If I may have a word, captain," he said as formally as he could manage. The tips of his ears were burning.

"_What_?" bellowed Jim, trying to make himself heard over the music. "Spock, are you growling?"

"It is imperative that I speak to you. Alone, if possible."

"I can't hear a word you're saying," Kirk informed him. He grabbed Spock by the elbow and dragged him the direct route to the exit, straight through the flailing mass of people on the dance floor. Spock tried to keep his bare hands and face to himself, but the sheer density of people made it impossible not to brush patches of skin. He was buffered by a collage of human emotion; joy, lust, boredom, drunken disorientation, lust, lust, nausea, confidence, lust. When they finally emerged on the far side of the cluster, Spock was sucking in the smoke filled air as unobtrusively as possible trying to clear his head. _There is music playing, but you cannot hear it. Your skin is the limit of your awareness. There is nothing beyond you_.

And Kirk's hand on his elbow, of course. It was pleasantly cool and not to be ignored.

The night air of San Francisco was crisp and clear, and the moon lent plenty of illumination to the alley outside the club. Kirk let go of his arm and turned to face him.

"How did you find me?" he asked. He was standing close enough that Spock could smell the cherry on his breath. No cocktail onion, then. Curiously, he did not smell like alcohol either.

"Jim, we need to talk."

"You used my name. That bad, huh?"

"I am deeply -"

But Kirk wasn't paying attention. A group of young people staggered out of the club, cheering and bickering loudly. He and Spock got out of the way. Trailing behind the rest, pinning each other against the walls as they went, was a young couple. Spock raised an eyebrow. Apparently, alternately shoving tongues down each other's throats was an important feature of human courtship. _Throw me onto the bar counter and ravish me_. Maybe his theories weren't so far removed from the truth.

Kirk seemed to appreciate the sight as well. Spock wondered if he was regretting not taking the woman up on her offer.

"Have you had dinner yet, Spock?" he asked at length.

"Negative."

"Come on, then. I know a place that makes fantastic pasta. You can be deeply whatever once you've got some carbohydrates in you."

* * *

><p>Despite Spock's misgivings, Kirk's restaurant turned out to be a nice place. It was almost empty and had a row of private booths in the back, pressed up against a large window overlooking the garden. The floors were hardwood and curved up to form tables and benches, giving the room an organic feel. Narrowly avoiding one of the low-hanging lamps, Kirk slid into a corner booth in the back, opposite Spock.<p>

Kirk ordered from the waitress without looking at the menu, and Spock wondered privately how he came to be acquainted with the place; it seemed fairly incongruous with his image of Cadet Kirk the Insurgent.

"You are not currently intoxicated," Spock spoke in a low voice, despite the privacy. Kirk was sipping at the complimentary water with the fervency of someone hoping to avoid conversation for as long as possible.

"Yeah. About that. Look, I'm sorry I yelled at you this morning, but you can't just go looking for me in every bar in San Francisco proper because you think I'm going to be an embarrassment to the Federation." Kirk leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms. "I meant it when I said I'm tired of being treated like a child. If my own second doesn't trust me, how can I expect Starfleet to?"

"On the contrary, I consider you a more than adequate representative for the Federation." Spock looked around him. The restaurant was almost empty. "Might I enquire as to why you brought me to this establishment?"

"I thought it would be nice if we could solve our problems in a civilized manner for once."

Spock poured himself a glass of water as well. The action afforded him a few moments to think. Kirk had left the Enterprise that morning emotionally compromised, accompanied by the ship's doctor, in search of alcohol. This event had multiple precedents, and the logical hypothesis based on the available data was that the next time Spock encountered Kirk, his neck would be adorned with an assortment of anti-headache hypospray marks, bites, and contusions. He hadn't honestly expected Kirk to show up hung over to meet the ambassadors, but he did wish to know at what point the captain had abandoned his original plan. Jim Kirk universally leapt before he looked. This was an aberration to that pattern.

Spock wasn't quite sure how to phrase his question to isolate the variable. "You gave every indication of a desire to intoxicate yourself this morning," he hedged.

"I changed my mind."

"For what reasons?"

Kirk avoided Spock's gaze to stare out the window into the small garden beyond. "I never get drunk before Alpha shift." He sighed. "This was a stupid idea. I should have just let you rib me for my immature, illogical ways in the alley like you wanted."

"Jim, I did not locate you for the purpose of berating you."

"Bullshit. I _saw_ your face in that club. You were pissed -" he held up his hand, forestalling Spock's protest, "-and don't try to deny it, I know what your pissed face looks like."

Spock winced. "Vulcans have changed little since the time of Surak. At times, we find it hard to accept the degree to which humans are capable of adaption. The first impression formed of a Vulcan is usually the correct one. It is not always so with humans."

"So... what? Despite the fact that we've - god forbid - sort of gotten along for almost a year without any attempted murders, you're _actually_ still pissed at me for the Kobayashi Maru?" Kirk smirked. "Because my first impression of you was that you had a massive stick rammed up your-"

"Gentlemen?" The waitress slid two plates onto the table. Kirk gave her a distracted smile and thanked her. Looking over her shoulder, she narrowly avoided colliding with a table on her way back to the kitchen. Spock examined his dish carefully. It was a salad of some sort, blending traditional earth foliage with - not. There was romaine and iceberg lettuce, but also extraterrestrial fruits and vegetables. His fingers itched for his tricorder.

Kirk was shoveling down pasta with tomato sauce like there was a shortage of it.

"Where were we?" he asked in a lull between mouthfuls.

"My generously proportioned stick," Spock offered.

Kirk choked.

Spock considered thumping him on the back, but Kirk held up a hand despite his coughing. "M'fine," he managed to get out. "God, Spock. You can't just _say_ stuff like that."

Spock raised an eyebrow. "The point I was trying to make with my earlier comment is that I sometimes find it hard to ascertain whether I have incorrectly misjudged an individual, or whether they simply have changed. My enquiries into your motivations sprung from this, not from any doubts I may harbor as to your qualifications as captain. Currently, I have no cause to doubt your discretion regarding alcohol or other diversions."

"Currently," said Kirk. "I don't know, Spock. You tell me. Have I changed?"

To the scientist and the Surakian, the answer was obvious. Change was the essential process of all existence. Kirk had lost a pound or two from the ordeal on the away mission, and he had faint circles around his eyes like he hadn't had a good night's sleep in days. There were faint traces of lines by his eyes and mouth that hadn't been there before the Narada. He was wiser and more tired.

Spock wasn't sure this was the complete answer, though. He was still a cocky brat at times. He laughed the same way - like the universe was a pleasant surprise. He still defied expectations at every opportunity.

"Not in any essential way," he said. "You are older, but I should be more concerned if you had not aged at all."

Kirk smiled. "You have. You make _jokes_."

"Vulcans do not joke." The response was a knee-jerk reflex.

"See?" Kirk stole a slice of carrot off Spock's plate and chewed it thoughtfully. "So, if you weren't going to recite regulations, why were you looking for me?"

"I was not in fact _looking_ for you," said Spock. "I _found_ you. You have my most profound apologies-"

Kirk gave him an odd look. "Is this about the away mission? Niamh II?"

"It is related to the subject, yes," Spock had an uncomfortable moment of realization. "What exactly did Doctor McCoy tell you?"

"That you have a mental homing device that can find me no matter where I am because we are psychic BFFs. He made very sure to clarify this meant we weren't in any way married." Kirk rolled his eyes. "I told him to lay off the whiskey."

"I am able to detect your presence irrespective of your location."

"Oh."

Spock sighed. "It is not a permanent condition. We are indeed extremely compatible, mentally speaking. How familiar are you with Vulcan telepathy?"

Kirk shifted in his seat. "Fairly. You have bonds, right? Everyone you know leaves a sort of imprint -"

"Exactly. We call those familial bonds. They are frail - even more so with humans than with full vulcans. It is not easy to explain to the psi-null, but you may think of them as a network of roots. They keep us centered, grounded. The destruction of Vulcan left me weakened. When you were threatened on Niamh II, my mind rebelled at the prospect of losing another connection. It instinctively picked up on your distress."

"You _read my mind_?"

"Negative," said Spock. "You were broadcasting your fear. I picked up on it."

"Isn't that something," muttered Kirk.

Spock delicately speared a leaf on his fork, and examined it before eating it. He avoided Kirk's gaze. "I made the choice to deepen our bond in order to divine your location," he said. "It can be undone. We will need to submit to a Vulcan healer, and for that I apologize profoundly."

"Wait, go back." Kirk frowned. "You took our familial bond, and - what?"

"When two individuals are mentally compatible the familial bond can be expanded into a full mating bond. Unlike other types of bond, this bond cannot co-exist with others. Vulcans have one mate, and one only. This sort of - dedication - has its own benefits: telepathy over distance, mental synchrony. Many Vulcans find it gives them emotional stability. I deepened our bond just enough to obtain the benefits necessary to find you. We do not share a full mating bond. That would require additional contact, mental as well as physical, on our behalf. But I did engage you in the initial stages of one without your knowledge. By Vulcan law, I am subject to trial, and if you wish to prosecute, I will happily submit-"

Kirk reached forward and grabbed Spock's arm. His hand was warm through the thin cloth.

"No trial. You saved my life. But swear to me - swear you didn't read my thoughts."

Spock brushed his fore and index finger gently against the back of Kirk's hand, focusing on the skin contact. "I swear," he said, imbuing his words with all the truth he could summon. _Never. Only locations. Would never betray your trust in that manner, ne ki'ne, trusted friend_ -

Kirk slowly withdrew his hand. "What was-"

"Vulcans take the gifts of the mind extremely seriously," said Spock. "We have words for these crimes - Kae'at Knal'lur, Kae'at K'lasa, Eschak. Mind-Eavesdropping, Mind-Rape, the Killing Gift. Depending on the circumstances, the penalty for the first is prison or exile. The penalty for the last two would be a formal challenge by the House of the offended party. If the challenged wins, exile. If the challenged loses, death. What I have done is Mind-Eavesdropping. Your free will has not been broken, and I have not listened to anything I should not. You have my word as a son of the House of Surak."

Kirk looked at Spock like he'd never seen him before. He was panting slightly, like he'd run a mile, and his pupils were dilated.

"Jim?" A faint brush of his fingers against a hand. _Fear, trust, acceptance, relief, pain_ -

It was as though someone had restarted a holovid. Kirk leaned back casually. "Definitely no trial, I think. I don't much like the idea of a formal challenge."

"I am shielded from your emotions."

"Good. I don't much worry about those. You know me. Emoting all over," he offered Spock a winning smile.

"I have spoken to the Ambassador Spock. He claims that one of the ambassadors that will escort us to our next assignment is a mind healer. He should be able to sever the bond between us."

"You spoke to -" Kirk cut himself off. "Sneaky bastard."

"I apologize for the interference of my older self. I believe he acted in what he assumed to be our best interests when he manipulated the truth."

Kirk waved dismissively. "Yeah, I gathered. Universe ending paradox - bullshit." He took a swig of water. "This - bond-severing process. Will this mean that we stop - you know, getting along?"

Spock shook his head. "Negative. When done professionally, it may have some effect upon our abilities to work as a team, but the effect should be temporary. We will simply return to neutrality. In time, I believe we will 'get along' as we currently do. Our compatibility will not be altered. However, to sever the bond, the mind-healer will require access to both our minds. He may intercept stray parts of your thought process. I can assure you that all mind-healers are sworn to secrecy, and will not divulge the acquired information to anyone."

Rubbing tiredly at his face, Kirk smiled sadly. "We'd be back to square one."

"Hardly," Spock said, as gently as he could. "Square one would entail a thoroughly illogical dislike of you on my behalf. I do not believe I am able to return to that state under any circumstances."

Kirk's eyes went very soft, and Spock felt his throat clench a little. He forcibly reminded himself that he'd done something dangerous and risky, and he'd known the price when he did it. He shouldn't have bonded himself to Kirk if he wasn't willing to break the bond when it was called for.

"So," Kirk cleared his throat. "Neutrality, and unwitting memory-sharing. Any other side effects I should know about?"

Responding to Kirk's captain-voice, Spock resumed his role as science officer of the Enterprise, presenting a problem to his superior.

"There is a faint chance of a temporary depression. Humans generally range from 0.2 to 0.5 on the Esper scale, and depending on your psychic sensitivity, it should last from 2-4 weeks. During that period, Doctor McCoy will be able to alleviate your symptoms with medication. Should the depression persist beyond that period, a Vulcan healer will be able to eliminate the problem."

"I can handle that, I have a sunny disposition. Now -" Kirk gave him a predatory glance. "-and I want the truth, mind you, no _implications_ - you told me that your mind rebelled at the thought of losing another bond. You're more sensitive than I am. What would a broken bond do to you?"

Spock had been hoping very hard that he would not be asked that question.

"I have shields," he responded.

"You're implicating," said Kirk.

The garden outside was lovely in the moonlight. The shrubs along the borders of the lawn itself were clearly defined, trimmed to mimic nature at its most orderly, and a small water feature bathed itself at the far end of the garden. The sound of the trickling water was barely audible through the glass. Spock observed it intently while he spoke.

"It is common for Vulcans to be bonded like we are in childhood. Upon becoming adults, the bond is expanded into a full mating bond if both parties are willing. My intended died with Vulcan. Her untimely demise, in conjunction with that of my mother, is the main cause of my weakened mental state. When our bond is terminated, I will likely require a few days of meditation."

"Are you going to be depressed?" Kirk asked. "You know, in your own, stoic, non-depressed way?"

Spock nodded. "I estimate a 93.2% chance of temporary depression."

"Worst case scenario?"

"There is a 3.7% chance that my shields will fail altogether, and I will require advanced mental healing."

"Jesus _Christ_, Spock, what the hell were you thinking? There is a four percent chance you'll go _insane_ from this procedure?"

"Three-point-seven," Spock corrected archly. "It is highly unlikely. And quite probably reversible."

"No," Kirk said. "No way. What other options are there?"

"I could sever the bond myself if the thought of another being sensing your thoughts is distressing to you. The risk of depression would increase, but -"

"Don't be an idiot," Kirk rubbed his temples. "Can I think about this? It's a lot of new information."

"Of course. Jim, do not allow any needless concern for my mental health to influence your choice. I knew the risks when I bonded us."

"It isn't much of a choice, to be honest. Fucking no-win situation. This is your way of getting back at me for the Kobayashi, isn't it? Asking me to make a choice that'll make me forget how much I like you."

Spock felt an irrational urge to hug the captain, telepathically broadcasting his belief that any diminishing of his regard for him would be temporary at worst, and probably overcome in a matter of days. It was not logical, but it _felt_ true. _Why don't you tell him about old-you's suggestion?_ The bond whispered from behind the shields. _He likes you. You could protect him so much better - keep him burning bright and clear in your mind. Deepen the link. Cherish him._

"Once again, I offer my sincerest apologies." Spock ignored the bond's insurrection.

"Shut up." Kirk nudged Spock's foot with his own under the table. "Do you want to see if we can smuggle out some of your salad so you can examine it later before we order dessert? You've been eying it lustily all evening."

When they left the restaurant an hour and a half later, Spock had five kinds of leafy vegetables and an orange root hidden in various pockets. He wasn't quite clear on why they couldn't just have asked for it to go, but Kirk had been adamant.

Kirk kept his eyes on his commlink as they left, leaving it to Spock to make sure they were headed in the approximate direction of the Academy shuttle port.

"Hey," Kirk said, when they were five blocks from the restaurant. "Let's go this way."

Spock looked down the alleyway Kirk had suggested. It was almost completely dark, shadowed by tall poplars. One side of the street was lined by the tall brick wall which traced the border of the Academy gardens, the other was row houses in various states of disrepair. There were no street lamps. Kirk shoved his hands nonchalantly in his pockets, his commlink out of sight, the picture of blue-eyed innocence.

"The ambassadors are arriving tomorrow," Spock reminded him. "Perhaps we should make an effort to return to the Enterprise at a decorous hour."

"We will! It's the scenic route!"

"Are you currently carrying any items that carry value on in this, or other solar systems, including, but not limited to, credits, identification chip, commlink, a form of timekeeping device, shoes -"

Kirk rolled his eyes. "We're not going to get mugged. Come _on_, Spock, we've faced off against a black hole. Kepler's Lane isn't that much darker."

Grudgingly, Spock fell into step besides Kirk. "You know the name of the road," he accused. "You are familiar with this route."

"Went to school around here."

"What name does the road connecting the administrative wing and the main entrance to the grounds carry?"

"Cochrane... Avenue?" Kirk grimaced. "I'm selectively eidetic."

Spock dodged a large pothole in the asphalt, brushing up against the wall as he went. The particular section of the garden was far away from the groundskeeper's vigilant shears, and the brick was carpeted with ivy and honeysuckle. The air was heavy with the sweet smell of the flowers. If Spock closed his eyes, he would be able to navigate the length of the lane by nose alone. Kirk seemed to have the same ability - he dodged barely visible irregularities in the road with the effortless familiarity of someone who has stumbled along that particular stretch many times before in various states of intoxication.

It was one of _those_ roads, then.

You could teach at the Academy for years and never find out half of what the students learned in one month. They kept maps of the city, tabbing out good pubs, quiet parks, places you could sleep off illegal substances, shortcuts, stores that sold secondhand datatabs with curious stains for a very low price, noodle shops, thrift stores and repair shops that weren't above donating a fuse here and there for a pet project. They knew where you could get Saurian brandy, exam notes, tribbles, sonic screwdrivers, three-for-a-credit woolen socks and globes of every planet in the Federation. Spock had found one of the maps, once. It had been a mess of strings and colored pins, and he'd spent a few days poring over it before tracking down the owner. Kepler's Lane hand't been marked, but he had a feeling that Kirk's map, if he'd trusted his knowledge of the city to paper at all, would have been a lot more comprehensive. He wondered what the lane was - shortcut, quiet spot, black market caffeinated beverage dealer? There had been a handful of students in his advanced placement course who all but vibrated on exam days.

"Here we go," said Kirk. He stopped in front of a stretch of wall exactly like the rest.

"What exactly is our purpose in frequenting this location?"

"We're meeting an old friend." Kirk brushed the ivy aside to reveal several indents where the wall had been chipped. He hooked his fingers into the ledges and began climbing. Within seconds, he'd swung himself over the top of the three-meter tall barrier and dropped out of sight on the other side with a muffled _whump_. "All clear. Keep up, Spock."

They were breaking into the Academy. _Of course_ they were breaking into the Academy. They could have walked in through the front gate, would have been welcomed home, but Kirk didn't work like that. Starfleet had stepped on his dignity once that day, he'd creep in like a teenager returning well past curfew just to show them that whatever they did to him, he'd keep his teeth. Spock sighed, hoisting himself upwards after his captain. Whoever had carved the handholds had done a good job of it. Seconds later, he was standing on the Academy lawn. Spock straightened his shirt and patted down his hair where tendrils of honeysuckle had messed it up.

In the distance, through gaps between the trees, he could make out East dorm where the Engineering and Security track students were quartered. The lights were on in a few of the rooms, but it was very few, as was to be expected. Following the Battle of Vulcan, the number of cadets was at a record low. Even so, Spock was grateful for the constellation of poplars and beech trees shielding them from view. Kirk was crouching under a huge rhododendron and waving him over.

"Give me the salad," he ordered.

Wordlessly, Spock emptied his pockets. Kirk added two honeysuckle blossoms from his own pocket, and rummaged through the high grass underneath the bush for something.

"About two years ago, the keeper planted convolvuli back here. Spread like the plague, so he took it out again. If I remember correctly, he never got around to biocurbing under the bushes -" Kirk dragged out a white-flowered vine with a satisfied grin. "Perfect." He bunched together the flowers and fronds and tied them off with the convolvulus. The effect was that of a pretty if somewhat hastily assembled bouquet. Kirk looked Spock over critically, lingering on his shirt and the creases in his pants.

Spock raised an eyebrow.

Kirk patted his shoulder. "You'll do."

"What, exactly, will I 'do'?"

"We're going for the successful, worldly, yet rakish look tonight. Ooh, maybe with an overtone of desperation at the state of the universe. Can you do desperation at the state of the universe?"

"You wish for me to look... rakish."

Kirk tapped his lower lip. "Ok, good point. We'll delegate. You do successful, silent desperation, and I'll do worldly, devilishly handsome rakishness."

"Why?" asked Spock. He felt it was the appropriate comment for the entire situation, from the location to the salad-bouquet.

Kirk shrugged. "We need some information. I'd like to look like someone you'd want to give information to. Like James Bond. Rakish."

Spock narrowed his eyes. "Information. Your 'old friend' is a female, is she not?" Briefly, he considered grabbing Kirk by the collar and dragging him back to the ship before the night could devolve further into insanity. He ought to go himself, at least. If he returned to the Enterprise now, he might be able to run an analysis on the root vegetable Kirk hadn't used for floral decoration.

Kirk laughed. "Get your head out of the twentieth century, Spock." Then, the captain walked in between the trees. The back part of the gardens were landscaped to resemble hilly woodland, and the ground sloped gently upwards. Spock watched his feet as he followed. As the trees thinned before them, a lone figure became visible at the top of the hill, hand cupped in their chin, sitting, admiring the view.

"'Evening, sir." said Kirk.

Christopher Pike wheeled his chair around to face them. "Hello, Captain." He raised his eyebrows, surprised. "Commander. Now there's something I never thought I'd see. How'd he convince you to climb over the wall?"

"I'm persuasive," Kirk said, at the same time Spock said; "You knew about this behavior?"

Pike smiled. "There's the Commander Spock I know. Who do you think told Kirk about it in the first place?"

"I am appalled, sir." Spock assumed parade rest, hand behind his back, and glanced up towards the Academy. No one was outside save them.

Kirk handed over the flowers. "Congratulations on your promotion to admiral. It was about time the brass came to their senses."

"They're nice." Pike examined the leaves appreciatively, fanning the fronds out against his hand. "You got these the same place as the time you were trying to bribe Lector Neavia into going out with you?"

Kirk waved him off, disaffected. "She was into biology. Do you have any idea how hard it is to find Orion fern in San Francisco?"

"Hm. I trust you washed the vinaigrette off before you presented it to her."

"We were in a hurry. It's the thought that counts."

Pike looked from one of them to the other. "Why did you ask me to come out here?"

"To congratulate you, sir." Kirk had an impressive poker face when motivated.

"Do you know how easy it is to get a wheelchair uphill cross-country? It isn't. Cut the niceties and tell me why I bothered."

Instantly Kirk was transformed. It happened so fast Spock wouldn't have been able to pinpoint the exact moment had he not been expecting it; one second, there was Jim with dressing on his fingers and a smile lurking in the corners of his eyes, and the next there was a very pissed off Captain James T. Kirk.

"Admiral Komack called me this morning," he said evenly. "The main function of the Enterprise is now to make sure the Federation doesn't think we've slipped their leash. I've been hearing rumors about Klingon armament all day. I ran into Archer at a bar, and he muttered something about 'diplomatic incident' and scuttled off. We're being sent to a backwater planet in the exact opposite direction of the Neutral Zone for a mission that could be handled by a small delegation in a cruiser. I just want to know what's going on, sir, and with all due respect, I think I have earned the right to."

Pike gave him a look that was somewhere between surprised and proud. Spock was sure that Kirk caught it as well; the captain relaxed his shoulders a little, hands unclenching by his side.

"Are you sure?" Pike asked him. "If I were you, I'd take a year or two to rest, get used to your ship. Take the missions they give you. Starfleet politics aren't always pleasant. Don't get mixed up before you have to."

Kirk gave him a sad smile. "If you were me, you and my dad would have knocked down the door to Komack's office hours ago and demanded answers. You forget, my mom knew you too. She'd tell me stories. If you look at it from that angle, I'm taking the _mature_ -" he spat out the world like it was distasteful "- approach. I'm not treading on any toes - I just want to know what I'm getting my crew into."

Pike looked over at Spock. "What about you, Commander?"

Spock did his best to keep his voice neutral. "It is not my choice to make. The captain speaks for both of us in this matter. However, if it were, I would be inclined to agree. There can never be such a thing as too much knowledge. The morality hinges upon how you let that knowledge influence your actions."

"If the two of you agree on something, who am I to say otherwise?" Pike leaned back in his chair, and ran a hand through rapidly graying hair. "After the Narada, the Federation's position has been weakened. We've been trying to keep it quiet, but the destruction of Vulcan isn't exactly a secret. We've lost near to eighty percent of our cadets - that means five years worth of future officers, doctors, engineers, security crew, scientists -" Pike trailed off. "Vulcan has always been one of the pillars of the federation. What's left of the culture is now ensconced on T'Priah. They've got enough to do just keeping themselves alive. They're in no position to fight any battles for the next many, many years. Put those two things together, and Starfleet has suffered a crippling loss."

"The Klingons are pushing us. Trying to see how much they can get away with." Kirk didn't look like this was new information, and Spock supposed he'd already pieced most of it together from what he knew already. Perhaps he'd even been anticipating it.

"They can get away with pretty damn much at the moment. The Federation is at sixes and sevens, trying to figure out just how much they can push back without provoking them further."

"When it comes to Klingons, doing nothing is often a more expedient route to conflict. They regard the avoidance of confrontation as a sign of cowardice." Pike and Kirk looked at him, and Spock tried to convey a shrug by only moving his eyebrow. "I studied Klingon psychology and military tactics to ensure maximal accuracy in the Kobayashi Maru simulation. The style of attack is based on Warbird formations during the _toDSaH vIq_, one of the only Klingon battles we have records of."

"Right. So why are they sending a flagship on a milk run?" Kirk demanded. "We should be out there, confronting."

Pike sighed. "Kirk, they promoted you because you did one good thing and looked damn good doing it. Politics uses a lot of classic misdirection. Starfleet needed badly to distract from their losses, to show there was hope, that they were moving forwards. All the reporters and diplomats were distracted by the shiny medals. There was literally no-one else who could have taken your place on the Enterprise after what you did for Earth, so they used that. It doesn't mean they're going to forget the fact that during your time at the Academy, you got several official warnings, or that you took command of the Enterprise while on academic probation."

Spock resisted the compulsion to wince. The Kobayashi was a vital part of the curriculum, and he still believed in its importance in bringing home their own mortality to certain cadets. Officers who believed they were immortal generally got people killed. A little emotional bruising was a small price to pay for saved lives. However, in retrospect, persecuting Kirk did carry a faint flavor of personal vindication and wounded pride. It was a failing as a Vulcan.

"They're gambling the future of the Federation because they don't like me _personally_?" Kirk frowned. "They are, are they? They don't trust me. They think I'm more likely to provoke an intergalactic incident than I am to help."

"In all fairness," Pike said. "You do have quite the track record provoking unflappable races. Klingons are born irate. Imagine what you could do with a whole ship of them." He determinedly avoided looking at Spock while he said this.

"They honestly believe I'd be that stupid?" Kirk pinched the bridge of his nose between his fore- and index finger. He looked as though there was a massive headache sneaking up on him. Spock quickly checked his mental shields. There wasn't much he could do for Kirk, but he could at least avoid a vicarious migraine.

"The Admiralty have such massively swollen heads that their brains probably exploded from the vacuum."

Pike coughed.

"...Present company excluded."

"Go complete your mission," Pike said. "Show them you've earned your rank fair and square."

"Will the Federation still be standing when we get back?"

Pike chuckled. "Well, I'm here, aren't I? I'm hardly going to let it collapse on my watch. Can you imagine the paperwork?" He looked at the Academy. A light had flickered on in a second story window. "We can handle it. The Klingons won't want to fight us. The Admiralty is looking into how Red Matter might be utilized as a weapon. They've leaked some test reports to known Klingon agents... After Vulcan, no-one wants to be on the receiving end of _that_."

"I've heard," Kirk said carefully, "the technology is still decades away."

"I sincerely hope not," Pike's tone was completely devoid of any emotion. "That would mean the Klingon agents had been given false information. It would be terribly unsporting."

Kirk grinned. "Nice. Now I want to stay just to see how that plays out."

"Jim." Pike leaned forwards, resting his elbows on his knees and looking Kirk straight in the eye. "Go. If Starfleet can't trust you, you're expendable. Expendable ships don't last very long, especially not in uneasy times. If you really want to do right by your crew, you'll make sure that Starfleet's behind you."

"Show the babysitters we can play nice." Spock was surprised the grass didn't wither and char under the vitriol in Kirk's scowl. Telling Kirk to cooperate _or else_ was a bit like telling a hungry Gorn it couldn't have the steak in your hand before it jumped through the hoop. There was a fifty-fifty chance of either compliance or getting mauled.

"Robert Morrowith is a good man, a good ambassador. He's been doing this since before you were born. I don't know Ambassador Sorel as well, but he comes highly recommended. Maybe you can learn something."

"Yeah," Kirk offered his hand. "Thanks, sir."

Pike shook it, and clapped Kirk on his forearm, as high as he could reach. "No problem. You're a good man, Jim. They'll realize eventually." The Admiral gave Spock a shrewd look. "And apparently, you're persuasive."

"Taught by the best."

Pike gave Spock a courteous nod. "Good luck, both of you."

Kirk and Spock stayed on the hilltop a few minutes longer, watching Pike wheel himself back across the lawn. The temperature was dropping, and Spock shivered in the wind.

"That went well," Kirk said.

"The flowers," said Spock. "I assumed it was a human witticism, but you were quite serious in your regards."

Kirk gently nudged Spock's arm with his own. "Hey, I resent that. I have manners. How else could I choose to ignore them so often?"

"You respect Admiral Pike."

Kirk opened his mouth, presumably to make another deflection, then closed it again. By the East dorm, Pike finally cleared the last stretch of lawn. He rounded the corner of the building and was swallowed up by shadows.

Grudgingly, Kirk nodded. "After my mom died, I managed to cram my head so far up my ass I could see out my navel. Pike set me straight. He's... decent. Strict as hell, but he's got this insane definition of right and wrong that makes him do some pretty amazing stuff sometimes." He cracked a smile. "I don't need to tell you that. He was your first Captain. I bet you didn't send _him_ 'regulation of the day' memos."

Spock shook his head, trying to sort out the new information. For some reason, he'd never considered Kirk's mother before. His father had been the obvious chink in his armor, the only thing Spock had needed to know to break him. In the year following that attempt, Spock had never considered asking; even in the wake of his own loss -

He swallowed down what tasted suspiciously like guilt. "Your mother..."

"Oh," Kirk looked stricken. "Sorry. I didn't think."

"The error, and subsequent fault, are both results of my unmindful behavior. During the course of our acquaintance, I have not once taken the trouble of enquiring as to your family."

Kirk snorted. "Like either of us would touch the subject with a ten-foot pole." Apparently, Spock couldn't quite keep the guilt or the shameful curiosity the topic entailed from showing - Kirk took one glance at him then bit his lower lip thoughtfully. He looked like he was trying to assemble a puzzle in his head. If you took those two pieces, added them to the whole and twisted it just right, so the light hit it from a certain angle -

"Seriously, Spock, it's fine. After my dad died, she didn't care much. She just lost the will to keep fighting. She's happier where she is now."

Spock bowed his head for a few moments.

Kirk broke the tension first by unzipping his jacket, slipping his arms out of the sleeves with obvious exasperation. "Alright, Spock, that's it. We're going back to the Enterprise now, and you're making yourself some of that horrid tea you drink. This is ridiculous."

Kirk pressed the jacket at him, and Spock took it with some trepidation. "I beg your pardon?"

"Your lips are bright blue. Your ears are green. I've been watching you for five minutes now, and you look like a handful of kindergarten kids got to practice their pastels on your face. How hard would it have been to tell me you were freezing?"

* * *

><p><em>Constructive criticism makes the story better. :)<em>


	4. The Ambassadors

_**A/N: **Star Trek, Kirk, Spock and various Starfleet personnel belongs to Paramount Viacom, and the coffee mentioned in the fic is the property of the Brazilian government. _

_As always, my profound (really profound. You could drop a penny into it and it wouldn't hit the bottom for _days_) gratitude to Dizdayn, who polishes off the rough edges of the story, and to anyone who has taken the time to review. On an aside note, did anyone read that article in Time about fanfiction? K/S got a mention - as did alien sex pollen. This fandom is absolutely famous. Notorious. Both. :D_

* * *

><p><strong>IV. The Ambassadors<strong>

Alpha shift the next day began with the formal introduction of the two Federation-appointed ambassadors. Ambassador Robert Morrowith was on the comfortable side of sixty and looked like someone had drained ever ounce of liquid out of him. His skin was parchment dry, and his hair was a puffy, cloudy gray. He was short - Chekov cheerfully hovered around him, rejoicing in the fact that for once, he could look down his nose at somebody.

Ambassador Sorel, on the other hand, towered above everyone. He was austere, even for a Vulcan, and of indeterminable age. His eyes were the characteristic black of the Houses from the plains south of Shi'Khar. Upon seeing Spock, he nodded once and offered the Ta'al.

"_Sochya, orishansu_. Greetings from the House of your father."

Spock performed his own salutations, lifting his hand in response.

Morrowith was peering around the bridge with interest. "Oh, this is marvelous," he said. "I haven't been on a ship this large since the old Wayfarer models. Goodness, how time flies."

Chekov stepped a few feet to his right to allow Morrowith a clear view of the navigator's controls. "You haff flown many missions, yes?"

Morrowith smiled. "_Da_. It's been a while, though. Haven't been in the field since we negotiated the neutral zone with the Klingons. Don't know why we bothered, sometimes."

Sorel straightened a bit further. Spock could have used his spine to measure the dimensions of the ship. "Diplomacy is a cornerstone of democracy."

"So was the two-party system. Doesn't mean it's always a good idea." Morrowith fired back. "It is very gracious of you to accommodate us, though," he added to Kirk.

"Perhaps you would like a tour of the ship?" Kirk offered cordially, gesturing to the ambassadors that they should precede him down the corridor.

As the rest of the bridge crew gradually resumed their duties, Spock settled at his monitor and began familiarizing himself with the parameters of their mission.

The class M planet Phaeton Eta was located in the Callisto solar system. It was approximately a fifth the size of Earth with a slightly thinner atmosphere. Nonetheless, it contained a sufficiently high percentage of oxygen that humans could breathe unaided. The planet's proximity to the sun of Callisto, as well as that of the neighboring solar system, Arcas, rendered it a desert planet. During the day, the suns would bake the surface, and temperatures would rise to over seventy degrees Celsius. At night, anything on the surface would freeze. The crust of the planet was scarred with multiple large canyons where the rapidly changing temperatures had cracked and broken the rock.

Not much was known of the indigenous species; the Phaetans were still a pre-Warp civilization. Despite amazing technological advances in other fields, they had simply chosen not to expand beyond the borders of their home world. According to the Prime Directive, the Enterprise should have steered clear of the planet. An exception had been made at the behest of - Spock frowned at the screen - the Phaetans themselves. They'd picked up the signals off the Federation's communication net, tracelessly hacked them, and sent a very nice letter to the admiralty requesting diplomatic talks. Attached had been coordinates of their capital city and a blank file marked RSVP.

Spock wondered exactly what else they had picked up from the communications nets.

The morning passed with the analysis of the various geological, meteorological and biological threats to any humanoid visitors to Phaeton Eta. Spock read about canyon collapses, heat waves, sandstorms and arsenic-based fungi and took notes. When his break arrived, he forwarded the relevant files to McCoy, passed the conn to Nyota, and joined Sulu and Chekov for lunch. The navigator and the helmsman were thoroughly engrossed in a discussion about what to name Chekov's recently discovered asteroid ("I will call it Hikaru - like friend, is mostly hot air and holes."). When the negotiations devolved into a highly unprofessional bread fight, Spock left for the laboratory.

He was running simulations of the magnetic and gravitational fields of the planet when Kirk entered the room, ambassadors in tow.

"- these are our labs, which - oh, hi, Spock. We're just passing through."

"Captain, ambassadors," Spock acknowledged.

"We don't mean to be any disturbance," said Morrowith.

"Your presence is welcome," said Spock. "Perhaps you would care to examine the Hydroponics labs more closely - they are quite aesthetically pleasing. If I might borrow Ambassador Sorel for a moment, I would much enjoy an account of the state of the Vulcan colony."

He'd been wanting to talk to Sorel. Being in the company of someone who'd seen the new colony only served to increase his curiosity regarding T'Priah.

"The colony progresses," said Sorel. He gestured for Kirk and Morrowith to go on without him and clasped his hands behind his back, regarding Spock's simulations with interest. "Your models are not without merit," he admitted.

"They are simply calculations."

"Indeed. If I may?" He leaned over Spock's shoulder, examining the fluctuations more carefully. "Flawlessly logical," he said at length. "The Science Academy has lost a promising candidate."

Spock looked at the older Vulcan. His face was carefully blank, though Spock had hardly expected any different. "Starfleet seemed a more prudent choice at the time."

"Of course." Sorel inclined his head, conceding the point. "Have you had news recently from T'Priah? I believe the agricultural developments would interest you. The xeno-agronomists have engineered a hybrid of the _sash-savas_ and the _t'svai_-arborea that will grow in T'Priah's calcium-heavy soil. I believe this development will be instrumental in the adaptation of further species..."

Spock listened with interest, occasionally asking to clarify a point. Sorel was a good talker - steering the conversation towards subjects he believed would interest Spock and giving a succinct report on the state of colonization. Occasionally Sarek or Ambassador Selek, alternative Spock's alter ego, would be mentioned, usually in conjunction with negotiations with the few Terran specialists allowed to aid in reconstruction or some particularly thorny scientific problem. It was an odd report to hear; the people were familiar, but the overall story sounded like it belonged in the pre-Surak times. If Spock hadn't witnessed the beginning of it himself, he would have been hard pressed to believe it.

After the destruction of Vulcan, the Enterprise had been the temporary home to the ragged, shell-shocked remnants of a dead planet. The population was devastated and the survivors, fractured. In the following weeks, many Vulcans had slipped into comas or madness, unequipped to deal with their mental and physical wounds.

According to Sorel, the roughly five thousand who hadn't succumbed to the mental backlash fell into three categories. Those who had brought their bond mate with them off the planet were shielded from the worst of the psychic backlash. The adepts of Kohlinar and the more devoted followers of the path of Surak sought refuge in logic and were in most cases able to meditate through the pain. The third group, the majority of the survivors, were left to deal with the trauma as best they could. The frequency of emotional outbursts had increased wildly. In their own way, the Vulcans were returning to their roots. They were a race of warriors, and they would fight as such. The only thing that had changed over the millennia was the enemy.

And there were enemies enough. Hunger and thirst was the first priority, shelter and sustenance. Sorel spoke mostly of these; you could combat them with science. As an okash-hakausu, Sorel had dealt with some of the mentally wounded. There were fights but only a few. The worst he'd seen had been a young geologist, Stonn, who'd spent a week drawing lines in the sand before anyone figured out they represented bonds. He'd taken a shovel, and on the shortest of the lines, he'd simply dug and dug and dug, until his hands blistered and bled and T'Linna, his House head, had to drag him out of the trench by force.

Conversing with another Vulcan was a skill Spock'd left to rust during his Academy years. It took him a few false tries and sidelong glances from Sorel to strike up the correct balance of interest, lack of emotion, formality and cordiality. He wasn't to ask questions outright; all he needed to know lay between the spoken words, implied, or indicated when a subject was hastily dropped.

"Reconstruction of the Academy of Science and the Lower Academy were not deemed immediately necessary."

_There are not enough children left that they cannot be taught elsewhere. There won't be enough for years._

"Ah, yes, Ambassador Sarek has been an invaluable aid - the council finds him most adept at understanding the idiosyncrasies of the Federation delegations. Of course, many of the younger Vulcans are proving surprisingly adaptive as well-"

_The older Vulcans are not happy accepting help. They see our culture weak, and they see the Federation leaving its imprint on an impressionable generation more likely to take the Delta shield than the circles and triangle of IDIC._

"Of course there have been advancements made in the field of biological architecture, but Professor Sanet has adopted a more agronomical focus, and as such, his research has largely benefited that field."

_Food supplies are such a problem that other research with might have helped the colony has been put on hold until they are solved._

Once he'd reacquainted himself with the method of communication, Spock found it suspiciously easy to read the subtext. Sorel was hinting towards something else altogether.

"- the lack of available man power for vital projects -"

"Perhaps," Spock suggested, "we might discuss the issue preying on your mind without further preamble? I suspect your colleague will soon have finished his tour of the laboratories."

Sorel gave Spock a piercing glance, and Spock felt as though he'd failed some important test.

"Very well," said Sorel. "I see that Captain Kirk's proclivity for bluntness is a trait he shares with his crew. Vulcans are, as you know, a race whose reproduction is dominated by cycles: it is usual for a woman to carry no more than two or three children, if that, over a period of thirty years. This rate is ideal to sustain a healthy population. The fact remains, however, that we are not a healthy population. We are an endangered species in a universe that will err towards Darwin's conceptions of nature. Repopulation is essential to our survival."

Spock nodded slowly. "I see your concern. There are several Deltan geneticists affiliated with Starfleet who excel in their field; I can contact them on your behalf, if you wish -"

"We have geneticists of our own. There are already programs in place to encourage a higher birth rate, as well as intermarriage between the Houses to further a strong gene pool."

"I do not understand how I may assist you, then."

"There has been some fear that further variation in the gene pool may be required to combat genetic diseases. The first law of survival is adaption, and however little the council likes it, certain concessions must be made to improve upon the birth rate. I understand that you are the first human-vulcan genetic hybrid?"

"Affirmative. As my Father will attest -" Spock paused and carefully set down the planetary diagrams he'd been holding. "The _first_ hybrid?"

"According to the records of the clinic that facilitated your birth, your DNA is evenly divided between human and Vulcan, despite the fact that your Vulcan traits are heavily dominant. Our knowledge in the area has progressed since then. Genetics should be able to achieve targeted traits such as a human period of gestation and certain innate immunities in hybrids with as little as 2-3% human DNA."

"The council approves of this?"

"Opinions are divided on the issue, but I fear necessity may force our hand. Your voice would be a welcome addition to the debate, Commander Spock. Perhaps you could facilitate the process of reaching the correct conclusion."

Spock barely bit back his reply in time; if they wanted an example of hybridism, they should ask Ambassador Selek. Of course, that would destroy the anonymity of the alternate Spock. Additionally, if Sorel wanted someone who could convince the council that human DNA would not make Vulcans susceptible to emotion, the Ambassador would be a poor choice.

Sorel read Spock's silence as hesitation. "I ask only that you stand by the example you have set."

Certainly, Spock had been an example all his life. His childhood years, he'd been the "why you shouldn't", a discouragement to all the potential parents of human-Vulcan hybrids: your child will grow up emotionally compromised. Now, he was to be the "why you should". The hybrid children could be of use despite their intrinsic flaw. They could grow up to add variation to the gene pool and be scientists in their spare time. It reminded him of Terran history lessons on the rationing during the world- and eugenics wars. There hadn't been enough coffee to go around, so people watered it down with acorns, roast chicory roots or beets. If it looked like coffee and tasted like coffee, who'd be able to tell the difference?

Everyone, that was who. If they'd had a choice, they never would have wanted it. No matter how you prepared it, a root would never be a bean, and after the treatment, the roasting and the boiling, it would be useless for anything else. It was forever stuck as a substitute, something not-quite either, the next best thing.

Spock wouldn't wish hybridism on his worst enemy. He fought a daily battle to even think in the correct manner. The council would have to find another way of increasing the population.

"Unfortunately," said Spock, "my work requires me to remain with Starfleet, for the time being. The casualties to the fleet at the Battle of Vulcan were severe, and until a suitable replacement is found, I cannot conscientiously leave my duties."

He offered up a model of weather patterns on the planet and hoped that Sorel would accept the change of subject. The Ambassador examined it, pronounced it passable, and returned to the previous topic of discussion.

"I have no doubt. Nonetheless, your unique talents would prove a valuable asset to the colony."

"My 'unique talents' are the reason I elected to pursue a career in Starfleet," Spock said archly.

"Ah. Understandable. Though I ask you to consider if you have not been rash to deny the entire race the benefit of your experience on the strength of past insults."

"I serve Vulcan how best, I deem, I may."

"It is unwise to let an important decision be made with little consideration. Context sways the best of us. Would you do us the honor of meditating on the request before denying it outright?"

That much, he could promise. Spock nodded.

Sorel quirked a brow, and a bit of the ice went out of his expression. "Thank you. Now, about your meteorological data -"

Ten minutes passed before Kirk and Morrowith returned. The latter looked like a child at Christmas, practically incandescent with excitement. He had a long scratch along his forearm and several smaller ones on his hands. "It isn't often you see them outside of Rigel, you know? They don't like leaving their native soil. How you got them to grow at all is beyond me. God knows, I've tried." He chuckled fondly. "Temperamental little prima donnas."

Kirk put a hand on his shoulder and lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Our pilot waters them with champagne and literature. They're partial to Sun Tzu."

"I see. Perhaps we will have the chance to speak to this gentleman later?"

Kirk nodded. "Sure. He'll be off duty soon."

Sorel inclined his head to Spock. "An interesting conversation, Commander. I trust we will be able to continue it at some later moment."

Spock watched Kirk herd his flock of two towards the door and silently marveled at the fact that the Captain hadn't snapped and told them to tell Starfleet to go to hell. Curiously, he dipped a thought below his shields.

_Boredom, frustration, anger, more frustration, then… excitement?_ The starship captain who was willing to play chess with a Vulcan to rid himself of just a small part of the diplomatic sawdust foisted on him would not feel excitement in such a situation. There was only one conclusion to draw, namely that Spock's shields were faulty. His own emotions must have colored his readings. Occam's Razor: The most likely solution was usually the right one, and mind reading wasn't an exact science - or exactly a science, especially given the linguistic barriers. More data was needed to reach a scientifically solid conclusion; once more, then, in Vulcan.

_Thrap, reshan, tepor'es, aitlu -_

_Aitlu?_

_Desire. To need and wish. Hunger -_

It was utterly incongruous with the situation, even for Kirk. A mistranslation. His synapses were unaccustomed to connecting hormonal surges with the appropriate noun.

Spock snapped back to reality as flawlessly as possible, hoping his confusion had not shown. Kirk was looking at him, and Spock instinctively straightened a little, schooling his face into a blank stone wall as he'd been taught.

"Captain?"

"I have some matters I wish to discuss with you, Mr. Spock. When do you estimate you'll be finished here?"

Spock glanced at his model of Phaeton Eta. The basic atmospheric simulations were almost complete though he needed to compensate for the gravitational pull of the Callisto and Arcas suns and factor in the powerful electromagnetic field surrounding the planet - and that, of course, would require an aside note to Mr. Scott -

"Twenty-two minutes past eight, standard ship time?" he hazarded. "Approximately."

"See you at nine," Kirk said.

* * *

><p>Spock saved ten minutes of his estimated total because he had the good fortune to run into Scotty in the upper levels of engineering. He subsequently spent those ten minutes lighting the candles of the <em>Yel-halek-kuv<em> and organizing his thoughts. At five to nine, he cleared away the mat and the candles and put water on for tea. It was hardly a Kirk-beverage on the best of days, but Spock estimated that by the end of his first day as a diplomat, the captain would drink mudslug extract if it would take away his headache. Theris-masu was an acquired taste, but tense muscles and tired minds tended to fall headfirst in love with it. Spending most of his waking hours with a highly illogical crew, Spock was dangerously close to becoming addicted to the substance. The calming properties of the tea helped him to maintain his quarters as a haven of peace, serenity and order aboard the very human Enterprise.

Then Kirk knocked at the door, and Spock barely had time to open it before Kirk had brushed past him and flung himself onto Spock's bunk, spread-eagled as though he'd been stunned mid-flight.

"Kill me now," he moaned. "Seriously, Spock. One quick Vulcan Ninja shoulder-pat of Death. I'll even do the paperwork approving the assassination of the captain for you; just put me out of my goddamn misery."

"...Good evening." Spock clung to manners in the hope that he could force the conversation back on track. "Please come in. Would you perhaps care for a cup of tea? The water has not yet reached optimal temperature, but -"

Kirk lifted his head, a slightly wild look in his eyes. "I love you, first officer dearest, but if you continue to be polite I'll gag you with my socks. They aren't clean, but I'm _just that desperate_."

"Captain-"

"Commander, I have snapped. Gone off the deep end. Tell Starfleet I blame them. Do you know if that cave on Delta Vega is abandoned now? I want to live there -"

Spock sat down.

Swinging his legs over the side of Spock's cot, Kirk managed to get himself semi-upright.

The silence stretched on.

Kirk rubbed at his face with one hand. "I shouldn't just barge in here and break conversational norms for the hell of it, should I? I'm sorry, but it really has been a snot barrage of a day - can we just... start over?"

Spock nodded.

"Tea sounds nice," Kirk said quietly. "I'd like some, if that isn't any trouble. Can I help with anything?"

"The water has not yet reached-"

Kirk waved his hand. "-optimal temperature, yeah. Just let me know, ok?" He pinched the bridge of his nose. "So, er... How was your day?"

"Adequate."

"How nice."

"I assume you found yours sub-standard?"

Kirk laughed humorlessly. "I knew we made you science officer for a reason."

"I was the only applicant for the job," Spock said drily. "You were shipping out the following day, and no-one had filled the post."

"Turned down thirty-two Starfleet scientists hoping you'd come round," Kirk corrected him. The tea-water boiled, and before Spock had found his feet, Kirk had removed the kettle from the old-fashioned heater and pulled two earthenware cups and a ceremonial pot from a shelf. He continued talking while he measured out spoonfuls of leaves and added them to the boiling water. "They were all _qualified_, of course, but you were by far the best. You were always intriguing - oh, and I was trying to butter my way into Uhura's good graces. Did you know that she can swear in like fifty languages?"

"I am aware of the fact, yes."

"Because I could totally use Vulcan swearwords on a day-to-day basis." He smiled and set the pot of tea down in front of Spock. "You do have them, right?"

"Fascinating. I assumed expletives would be the first thing you would wish to learn in Vulcan."

"Do you have any sugar?"

Spock gestured at the replicator.

"Great, thanks." Kirk shoveled copious amounts into his cup and slouched in his chair with a sigh. "This stuff makes me want to amputate my tongue without sugar. Useful, though."

"I was unaware that your studies of Vulcan culture extended to herbal infusions." Surprisingly, Kirk hadn't butchered the drink completely. Spock's tea smelled bitter and spicy, like it should, and had the characteristic amber tinge. The liquid clawed at his throat on the way down and dissipated warmth throughout his body. It was a little like melting. Kirk was eating his tea with a spoon, crunching mindlessly at his sugary herbal syrup.

"It's tea, Spock. It's not like it's nuclear physics," he said. "Well, actually, the nuclear physics might be easier. Bad example. I think I've seen you make tea before. Selectively eidetic, remember?"

"I am quite sure you have not."

"Maybe it was one of Uhura's 'Cultural Sensitivity' lectures." He sighed. "I really am sorry for barging in on you like this. I'd planned on behaving all professional and captain-y and everything. It's just that I've been over-thinking every sentence all day, and - no, I'm not actually sure why I'm rambling, except that somehow I feel than I can around you, and have -"

"Jim, are you feeling quite well?"

"Yeah, 'm fine."

Spock thought about pointing Jim's mussed hair and confused demeanor out to him but decided not to. If Jim did not wish to confide in him, he would not force the issue. "Have you reached a decision in relation to the bond?" he asked instead.

Jim nodded. "Maybe. I have a few questions first, though. They're kind of personal."

"It is your right to ask."

"Right," said Kirk. "So you don't have to answer - but is this why you broke up with Uhura? Because you didn't have the whole mind-buddy thing going?"

"Because we weren't sufficiently compatible that we could engage in a full mating bond?"

"That."

Spock cupped his hands around his mug, feeling the warmth seeping through the clay into his hands. The many nerve endings hummed at the sudden desert warmth, and his fingers tightened imperceptibly, seeking out more of the pleasurable sensation.

"It was one of several factors contributing to the final conclusion. Nyota and I are much alike; we are both reticent. There was a certain effort involved in changing the nature of our relationship, and in the end, we found it more prudent to simply let it revert to its natural state."

"You're still friends?" Kirk asked.

"Indeed. Nyota has requested a brief period of time to re-accustom herself to our current dynamic, but we maintain cordial relations."

Kirk's expression was almost wistful. "Do you miss her?"

"I -" Spock stopped. _Yes_. "I am a Vulcan."

"But you do love."

"Rarely," he admitted.

Kirk made an odd little jerking movement, as if he wanted to reach out and hug Spock. The Vulcan tensed, anticipating the onslaught. Instead, Kirk's hand came to rest upon his arm.

"That's another of my questions," Kirk said gently. "You said Vulcans can only have one mating bond at a time. What would happen if we - if we kept the bond, just for the time being, until your mind gets better? If you met someone, would you be able to date them? I mean, I don't want to get in your way or anything."

"Jim. We cannot keep the bond. It is a violation of your rights as a sentient being. You do not understand the damage I am capable of causing to your mind -"

_He wants us_, sang the mindlink, incandescent with joy. _Our mate. Never parted, touching and touched -_

"But you won't," Kirk said with absolute confidence. "I mean, you haven't. I trust you."

"I could kill you," Spock said, monotonously. "I could reach into your head, deepen the bond, and stop your heart. I could hear your every thought. I could insinuate myself so thoroughly into your mind that you would not be able to tell which desires were yours and which were mine, where your personality ended and mine began. I could make you want the bond, cherish it. I could addict you so thoroughly to my presence that it would drown out any individual emotion you feel. Death would be merciful, compared to the pain I could inflict upon you. You are not Vulcan; you cannot protect yourself."

Kirk paled a little, but tightened his grip on Spock's arm. "I know you, Spock. You forged the bond to save my life. I'm offering to keep it to save your sanity. Look, it's all very simple - if you want, we'll just leave it as it is. You promise not to touch anything in my head unless it's an emergency, and I won't try to get into your head just for the hell of it. Mutual benefit. You stay non-insane, and I stay non-dead."

"It is not a question of want on my part. I feel nothing for either option. Nevertheless I would remind you that less than a year ago you succeeded in goading me beyond reason. I intended to kill you. Rationally, I would not seek to hurt you, but I am not a flawlessly rational being."

Kirk looked thoughtful. "I don't think you would hurt me, even if I goad you. We fight all the time, but we never really lose it anymore." He frowned. "Didn't bonds evolve on Vulcan for the express purpose of preventing the species from killing itself off before passing on the genes?"

"True." Spock bowed his head. "But you cannot rush into this. You do not know the implications-"

Kirk shrugged. "Ambassador Sorel can cut the bond, right? I'm not rushing. We can leave things how they are for this mission, see how they go. Look, if you're really against this, just tell me. But I like being your friend, and I like you happy."

"Jim, Vulcans take bonds very seriously."

"I know, Spock. Believe it or not, I've actually thought about this -"

"By Vulcan standards, we are currently engaged." Spock removed his arm from Kirk's grasp and picked up the teapot to clean it out. He didn't want to watch the expression on his friend's face. Kirk lived like he had Deltan pheromones in his blood; effortlessly physical. He couched his tongue in the corner of his mouth when he concentrated, alternately biting at his lips and licking them, and had, from the first time he sat in the captain's chair, adopted a casual, seductive sprawl. Vulcans didn't do _anything_ casually. He hadn't understood it before, but perhaps Kirk would now. A bond was not just something to be held and discarded once their lives were out of danger without paying the price.

"I guess that answers the dating question," Kirk said lightly.

Spock whirled on him, brandishing the pot. "This is not a joke, Captain, despite your persistence in treating it as such. Do you have any concept of how painful a broken bond is?"

"I believe I am familiar with loss, thank you. Just tell me if waiting to break the bond would make it easier for you to avoid some sort of psychosis," Kirk said.

"...Yes," Spock admitted reluctantly. "I believe so."

"Then, wouldn't the logical thing to do be to leave it, even if it's just for a week or two? I kind of like the idea of the magic trouble-sensing tracker system, too, but that's not the point."

"We are _engaged_." Spock wondered which part of the message Kirk had failed to understand.

"Well, it's not like we're actually going to get married, is it? It's just a technicality. Though we probably shouldn't mention this to anyone..." Kirk trailed off. "Man, Bones' face would be priceless."

"You are most emphatically not to involve Doctor McCoy in this."

Kirk waggled his eyebrows. "Oh yeah? Scared?"

Spock tried to project just how trying he found Kirk at that moment without moving any of his facial muscles.

"Bones would never let you live this down." Kirk yawned and stretched, exposing a faint sliver of skin below his uniform. "Sit back down, Spock. I'm too tired to out-logic you. If you say so, we'll go see Sorel right now."

Spock swallowed. Would it be so bad to wait a few days to sever the bond? He could meditate, improve his shields. He could keep Kirk safe on Phaeton Eta. There were benefits.

"We will sever the bond at the end of our mission," he decided. "At that point, I will have prepared myself to the best of my abilities, and we will be at liberty to deal with the potential backlash."

"Good. I don't want you moping all over the bridge." Kirk leaned forward, and the serious look in his eyes belied his light tone. "I mean it, Spock. I'm prepared to keep this bond for as long as you need to make sure you're ok."

That might be a while. Spock didn't say it, but he thought it. He'd seen enough of Kirk to know that his mind was an addictive substance. The more he got, the more he'd want. The trick was finding the line between putting off the procedure to make it safer for the parties involved, and putting it off because Kirk kept the darkness and loneliness at bay. _After the mission_, Spock promised himself. _The instant we board the Enterprise_.

Spock nodded. "I am grateful for your understanding."

Kirk laughed, and Spock regarded him skeptically; the laugh had a replicated quality, a little stale and slightly suspicious. "Yeah. Anything to keep the First Officer in working condition." He shrugged, as if throwing off the weight of the conclusion. "You know, given that current mush-factor of my brain, now would be a good time to beat me at chess. I mention this only because I know you need the advantage."

Spock raised an eyebrow.

"Thought so," said Kirk. "Shall we start the betting at five status reports?"

Apparently, it was a rhetorical question. Kirk began setting the board without waiting for an answer, and Spock leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers.

"You share Mr. Scott's philosophy regarding the Enterprise," Spock said when Kirk had the pawns lined up. Spock straightened his distractedly, making sure they filed up with befitting military precision. "Surely, a day spent admiring her virtues cannot be wholly wasted?"

Not to mention that Kirk probably would have baited and finagled every scrap of information out of the Ambassadors he could possibly get. It was the sort of challenge he enjoyed.

"The inside of my head is a riot. I swear, there's throwing of sharp, nasty objects in there." Kirk rested his chin in his hand and shoved a pawn towards Spock's side of the board. He was playing black. Spock overlooked it. "If my brain cells go on strike, do you think Komack will hold me responsible?"

Spock repressed a smile. Kirk was getting better at dodging questions he didn't want to answer.

Later that night, when they had removed the sheen of dust on Spock's 3D chessboard quite thoroughly and Kirk had finished telling Spock about how completely mindlessly dull it was to accommodate diplomats (Kirk's personal philosophy seemed to be that exaggeration furthered understanding), Spock cleaned up the cups and kettle. Kirk had left minutes earlier, after almost falling asleep in the middle of a rant.

Spock was tired as well, though he knew the feeling enough to separate it from his thought process. It didn't affect him as such, other than being an extra drain on his shields. Mindlessly, he finished cleaning and removed his boots and uniform.

Kirk wanted to keep the bond. He shouldn't have been so surprised - after all, his older self was an extremely adept puppeteer. He wouldn't have recommended talking to Kirk if the captain wouldn't have taken his side of the argument. Spock frowned. When had he begun to regard the ambassador so negatively? He had no cause for his dislike. It was irrational, and more than a little paradoxical; it was not as if he actively opposed himself. His older counterpart should be no different. What had been, was, to some degree, but that was a result of the past. The future wasn't set. It was illogical to hold a grudge against someone because they represented the bad choices you would make if your planet hadn't been destroyed - an event that was the direct consequence of your bad choices, and a prime example among them.

Vulcans liked to view life as a series of logically dictated actions and consequences. Coincidence was simply a product of someone else's action. If you added multiple dimensions, however, the model grew a lot less linear: Spock was influencing his past with choices from his future, actions that had never happened and never would. Taken out of context like that, it was hard to guess at his alternate self's motives or character. He had neglected to pass relevant information on to Spock directly once before, in an attempt to manipulate events to make them resemble those of his own timeline more closely. In doing so, he had risked the fate of the Federation outright.

That might be it, the root of his dislike - Spock had never enjoyed unknown variables. He did not know the Ambassador's ultimate goal, nor the information he was keeping from him this time around. There would be a reason for it; he was a logical creature, after all, but there would also be a risk. Spock was playing the Ambassador's game partially blindfold, and he was dragging Kirk along with him.

* * *

><p><em>He could make popcorn. Could have put a bag in each of his pockets and watched the face of the ceremonial guards as in the middle of the rituals as - pop! - he began to expand with little snaps. It's just<em> that _fucking hot._

_Where is he?_

_A desert of some sort, sand is in his mouth and eyes._

_He's burning up. The sun is nothing; he's got a supernova in his veins. He can't remember anything but the glorious blaze. The glass is gone, and the wheat - like it was never there. Only the fire left. He is tapped, and he rings true. A clear, crisp note. Then he is on the ground,with blood in his mouth, and it's not his own. Tastes like iron, not copper. The wrong metal. Human. He licks at the neck of the creature holding him down against the sand to be sure. The skin is salty, and damp with sweat. There it is - he's holding the human. Why? He can't think. He's just burningburningburning and oh God, let the Opponent bite his ear again._

_It's all wrong, he thinks desperately. I'm not the blaze, or the warmth. I'm the cold breath, space through the last gasp of the atmosphere, the ocean deep below where light never reaches. Nothing beyond the border of my skin -_

_He manages to get himself clear, and the world shifts around him. He clings to the body in his arms, and inhales it. One hand is fisted in his hair, another on his back, and he removes them to twine them with his own. Pupils blown wide with desire, and he snarls as he slides against him. He presses hungry kisses to the Opponent's mouth, and tastes his mind through his temples. He tastes like bourbon vanilla without the vanilla and a lazy summer afternoon in Terran grass._

_He tastes bitter. Polluted. Something's wrong._

Spock woke completely tangled in his sheet. He struggled to free himself and barely managed to make it to the bathroom before vomiting the previous evening's tea into the sink. It burned in his throat, and he gulped down some water to clear his mouth. His skin was hypersensitive from the dream, and he forced himself to get his physical reactions under control.

Spock moved into the shower cubicle but didn't turn on the water. He curled up against the wall, letting the glass cool him. Ambassador Spock had told him he had a full two years before Pon Farr took him, but perhaps this was some sort of warning - a precursor to the fact. His dreams made him sick. There was no logic to the frenzied lust. He should abhor what had happened, should have fallen upon meditation the instant he woke. Instead, he was hiding, shivering, in his bathroom. The feeling permeating the dream was not hard to name. Unlike the specifics of the dream, it lingered - aitlu. Desire.

When he'd sensed it from Kirk in the labs, it hadn't been a mistranslation between hormones and vocabulary. It had been a misattribution. His own repressed feelings were coloring his readings. Spock drew himself tighter together, becoming as small a sphere as he could. He was losing control.


	5. Strange New Worlds

_**A/N: **Star Trek is not mine, Kirk is not mine, Spock is not mine, and they all belong to Paramount Viacom. The commas and stylistic advice are on loan from Dizdayn. _

_Thank you to everyone who has commented for their interest, encouragement and theories; you make writing even more fun :)_

* * *

><p><strong>V. Strange New Worlds<strong>

"For God's sakes, Jim, sit down before you wear a hole in the floor." McCoy had commandeered Spock's seat by the science console and the Vulcan was standing next to the bridge window looking at the misty purple planet below.

Kirk dramatically pointed a finger at McCoy. "You - don't try and pretend you aren't curious."

"I ain't," McCoy drawled. "Can I go back to sickbay now?"

"No. We need to talk. Uhura, status on the diplomatic whatsamajigs?"

The lieutenant turned in her seat to face the rest of the bridge crew. "In the mess hall, Captain."

"Good. Alright," Kirk ran a hand through his hair, and glanced at Spock. "The landing party will beam down to the surface of the planet in approximately two hours. This is our first official First Contact, and I want everyone on their best behavior. The admiralty have been absolute dickwads since we saved their asses from Romulans, and -"

Spock cleared his throat.

"Sorry. The admiralty have been absolute dickwads since we saved their _necks_, and this is an excellent chance to show them we can do more than blow shit up. We've got the best crew in the universe and we don't need their doubt holding us back. I have every confidence in you." Kirk smiled. "Doctor McCoy, Lieutenant Uhura, Commander Spock and two security officers of Lieutenant Giotto's recommendation will beam down with the ambassadors and me. Lieutenant Sulu will have the conn in our absence. We will spend a week on the surface convincing the Phaetans that joining the Federation is an awesome idea, after which Scotty will beam us back, then we get to go collect our medals and go deep space exploring or whatever. Clear?"

Uhura rolled her eyes and raised her hand. "Do we have any formal samples of their language? I managed to pick up a bit off the broadcasts, and the universal translators can probably analyze most of their speech patterns, but the translation will be rough. I'd like to understand the mechanics so I can correct for idioms and cultural misunderstandings."

"We don't actually have much of anything on the Phaetans. Nice initiative, though." Kirk gave Uhura a slightly over-exuberant thumbs up. "Next question?"

No one spoke.

"Great," said Kirk. "Dismissed."

Spock stayed on the bridge watching the heavy cloud cover twist across the unfamiliar planet. Most of the others filed out to gather their things and prepare for their new duties. Uhura walked up to stand next to Spock. She looked distant, the way she did when she was trying to piece a conversation together in her head before it occurred so she could express her point in the most efficient fashion.

"I hope the captain knows what he's doing," she said.

"He usually encounters his original objective in the end," Spock replied.

"That's what worries me."

Spock raised an eyebrow. "You do not anticipate his success?"

Uhura smiled sadly. "We're talking about Kirk, aren't we? Of course, he'll succeed. You never taught him how to lose, remember?"

"He learned his lesson."

"Not the right one." She turned to face him, her expression serious. This was not the Uhura who would look up the folk songs first in every language she learned because diplomacy had to start somewhere and music was as good a place as any. This was the Uhura who'd cut her way from a small African village school to the top of Starfleet Academy with her tongue and wits alone.

"Do you know how obsessed he was with your test, Spock? He seduced my roommate because she was a computer technician who worked on the Kobayashi Maru. He led her on and used her. He didn't show up for classes for a week after his second attempt. I don't know how he managed to get copies of the original code to adapt the subroutine, but it was definitely underhand." She shrugged. "Slept with someone else? Bribed them? It doesn't matter, Spock - he was willing to do anything to beat your test, simply because he can't bear to lose."

"Your point being?"

"That level of obsession is dangerous." She frowned. "Oh, don't look at me like that. I like him, too. I respect him. But God help anyone who gets in his way."

Spock looked away. Uhura's hands were clenched, and she was regarding the planet with something akin to worry.

"He is not the same man who cheated my program, Nyota. He would die for the crew of this ship."

"Exactly. Starfleet made the mistake of equating Kirk's success with this mission with the survival risk of this ship. They're not going to give us milk runs forever. Sooner or later, we're going into battle of some kind, and without Starfleet's unconditional support, we won't survive. If Kirk doesn't obey the admiralty's commands to the letter, they won't trust him. He needs this mission to buy independence and security for the crew. He'll run himself into the ground trying to negotiate this treaty." She sighed and picked the end of her ponytail in a resigned gesture. Spock considered batting her hand away for a moment - she'd regret it later, when her hair was less than impeccable. "He payed attention to my report on local customs. He he asked _questions_."

"You are concerned for him."

Uhura and Kirk had a mutual truce based on respect, trust, and on Uhura's part, ignoring Kirk's idiosyncrasies. Uhura gave a slight shrug, and Spock wondered when exactly the nature of the truce changed to include concern.

"Perhaps this conversation would be better conducted with the captain," Spock suggested. He's gladly listen to Uhura's concerns, provided they were unrelated to Kirk. As it was, the urge to strand Kirk on a peaceful moon somewhere was overwhelming. He couldn't carry Uhura's fears in addition to his own.

"I'm concerned for you too. If he does something rash, you'll be right behind him. Just - be careful, will you?" She patted his shoulder, her fingers lingering on his arm for a heartbeat. "I miss you."

Uhura looked up at Spock, everything in her expression wide open. There was an unguardedness in her reminiscent of Kirk; the way she let her eyes soften.

"Perhaps we might speak more often," said Spock, suddenly aware of just how ragged his mental shields were. "Your friendship is valuable to me."

Uhura gave him a quick hug, as if she were afraid he might come to his senses and push her away. "Yes. Yes, we should."

Spock waited by the window for a minute after she had left then went to pack his notes on the indigenous culture of the planet.

His bag was only half full - he carried a few spare uniforms and datapads, as well as his tricorder. Most of what he'd like to bring planetside was too big and heavy to fit in a duffel bag, and the logistics of dismantling even a fraction of the Enterprise lab equipment just to run a few experiments were implausible. Spock put a few extra sample containers into the pocket of his bag. Packing was easy when you lived between your bed, your lab, and your work console. The bag was still light, and after a few moments' consideration, he picked a few of his ritual candles and a pinch of incense from his bedside table. Preparation often forestalled potential disasters, even when they seemed unlikely.

The PADD he'd used to note down his dreams he shoved unceremoniously under his mattress - he didn't want anyone accidentally coming across it. New yeomen would occasionally forget that he'd ordered his quarters be taken off the cleaning roster. His second PADD - the one he used to note down things that pertained to his job - he kept with him. If he hurried, he'd have time to deliver the last-minute research he'd been doing on dangerous creatures native to the planet to security.

Lieutenant Giotto was in security's Tactical Command, but he shook his head when presented with the report and pointed Spock back along the corridor he'd come.

"I've made the recommendations the Captain asked, Commander. You'll find Ensigns Jones and Yjehar in their quarters. They're the ones who ought to know." Distractedly, Giotto rubbed his head. "I get that you don't want to bring too many people on this mission, but - tell the Captain that we're here if he needs us, ok?"

Spock nodded. "Of course, Lieutenant."

Scotty was very good, but even he couldn't compete with the laws of thermodynamics. A certain amount of the engines' energy was still lost through heat. Security's quarters were near the belly of the ship, like Engineering's, and the temperature rose a few degrees as Spock made his way down one of the narrow ladders to a parallel, lower corridor. Spock had memorized the deck plan of the Enterprise when he was assigned to the ship. It didn't take him long to count out the appropriate number of doors the find the room he was looking for. If he had needed any more of an indication he'd come to the right place, Ensign Jones was standing outside in the corridor, duffel at his feet.

Spock's first impression of the ensign was that his personnel file didn't do him justice. The photograph clipped to it had shown a broad, burly man with thinning black hair. Reality presented him with a broad, burly man who by the looks of him had an armored tank somewhere up his family tree. He was a head taller than Spock and had hands that looked like they could crush a phaser as easily as fire it. He was fiddling with the silver stripe on his sleeve, only looking up when Spock was practically beside him.

"'Morning, Commander," he said. "Are we late?" His forehead wrinkled in concern.

"No. I am simply bringing additional material detailing possible threats to the mission. The study was compiled only this morning and I presumed you would prefer to have it with you despite the lateness in its completion."

"Oh." Jones appeared to think it through. "I read the file you sent yesterday," he said at length. "And I'm bringing my phaser."

"The other file was incomplete. Around four this morning, I unearthed mention of a variant of the common buzzard-"

Jones patted Spock's shoulder comfortingly before he could dodge out of reach. For someone so big, Jones was alarmingly fast. "Don't worry. I'm bringing my phaser." The security officer cracked open the door he'd been leaning against and stuck his head inside. "Hey, I'm going up to mess to get extra supplies."

"Give me a hand first, will you?" said a female voice.

Jones obediently disappeared into the room, and Spock followed. It's been a while since he'd been inside sleeping quarters that did not belong to someone on the Bridge crew; he'd forgotten quite how small they were. Two bunk beds lined opposite walls, with cupboard space making up the third. The walls were dotted with cubby holes filled with everything from decks of cards to what looked like a replica Klingon helmet. A small table and matching chairs decimated the available floor space and Spock noted with approval that someone had taken the trouble of welding the decorative potted plant to the center of the table. For a ship that moved exclusively through vacuum, the Enterprise tended to experience a good deal of turbulence.

Jones looked out of place, the apex of his scalp almost scraping the ceiling.

"Hold this," the female ordered, shoving an odd device into Jones' arms.

Jones shifted to make room for Spock in the cabin. The second security officer was, as expected, Ensign Yjehar. She was cradling what looked like five different explosive devices in the crook of her arm and rummaging in her duffel with her spare hand, presumably to make room for them. The bag clinked suspiciously.

"I retract my earlier statement," Spock said drily. "I am quite sure you are adequately prepared for the local environment."

Yjehar gently set down the devices, then stood at attention. "I heard you outside, Commander. May I have the information?"

Spock handed over the data pad. "Do not attempt to bring any weapons that are not sanctioned by Starfleet for diplomatic missions. I understand your concern but the Captain would hardly appreciate if we failed in our objective because of a misplaced grenade."

Yjehar frowned. "But... The Cap'n's coming. And Lieutenant Giotto said that -"

"_Cielos_, that is _not_ what he said." A pair of dark eyes appeared in the narrow space between one of the bunk beds and the ceiling, followed by a tired looking face. Spock remembered Ensign Garcete standing guard by the observation cams in the laboratories when he'd cross-referenced his data the night before. Evidently, she was surly when sleep deprived. She stifled a yawn with the back of her hand then glared balefully at Yjehar and Jones. "He _said_, and I'm clarifying here, that phasers wouldn't be enough to protect the Captain, so you should bring your wits. You bring your words." She nodded at Spock. "And you bring _concealed_ weapons. I know you won those Tellarian assassin's knives from Kzyrry the last time you played cards, so use them. It's not that hard."

There was a heavy sigh from the bunk bed followed by the sound of someone shifting into a more comfortable position and covering their head with their pillow.

"Yes," said Yjehar. "Words. Absolutely. Yes, sir." She gave him a blinding smile. Her teeth seemed almost preternaturally white against her green skin.

Spock left before the security detail could unsettle him further.

* * *

><p>Kirk was talking to Chekov by the auxiliary control panel for the teleporter pads when Spock arrived in the beaming alcove. Spock automatically slowed, guessing by the navigators' hushed tone that he'd rather speak to Kirk alone. It was too late to turn about now, though.<p>

"-am not a child, Keptin," Chekov said. "I am being eighteen, wery useful to you. I am ze second-best mathematician on ze ship -"

"Key words being 'on the ship'. Ensign, you're good at math, but-" Kirk's voice was kind.

"It is not just math. I am being genius. I vant to help. Last time, you go avay, not come back almost. Zis time, I help, _da_? I vant to go. Be heroic, like Hikaru and ze Commander." Chekov was painfully earnest, all ram-rod posture and bright eyes, the picture of a boy off to his first war.

Kirk put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. "You are heroic. You saved our lives on Niamh. Without you, we wouldn't have gotten back at all. I need you here, to take care of Sulu and Scotty and the Enterprise. I need you here so that if things go sour, we can always come back."

Chekov sighed. "I thought you say zat. Is math, math, and nawigation. I just come so far, and newer see planet. Not make good story for vhen I am old. Ze commander, he is best mathematician on ship, and he alvays go."

"Well, if I could, I'd keep him on the ship too. Look, you'll have your chance to see odd planets, I promise. Just - not this time around. Some other day, ok?"

"Yes, Keptin," Chekov said unhappily. "But I-"

Kirk caught Spock's eye over the top of Chekov's curly head. "Mr. Spock."

The ensign whirled. He had a startled and slightly guilty look about him, as though he'd exposed too much of himself. Spock knew the look and the feeling intimately and spared him a kindly glance as he fled the alcove. Kirk smiled sadly at his retreating back.

"I've got plans for him, you know," he told Spock. "When Sulu makes captain, he's going to be his first."

"The position of First Officer does require some familiarity with landing-party protocol. Perhaps a diplomatic mission would be a safer alternative to our usual fare." Spock hefted his duffel onto the floor next to the beaming pad, where a small pile of diplomatic gifts was already assembled. They were to be beamed down later with the additional baggage if the initial landing party wasn't met with a hailstorm of laser fire.

"Not until he's twenty, he's not going. He needs time to figure out that heroics in Starfleet is a lot less getting yourself almost killed in epic battles and swashbuckling escapes and a lot more physics and sweet-talking the extraterrestrials." Kirk flashed a grin at Spock, and leaned against the alcove wall in a casual gesture. Spock idly wondered if he'd practiced the movement for hours in front of a mirror, or if the attitude was just something humans had naturally developed around the same time as leather jackets and motorcycles. "'Cause damn, do we have to sweet talk a lot."

Spock decided to ignore that jab. "Eighteen is the standard age of emancipation for homo sapiens throughout the Federation."

"Chekov has insane role models. Sulu actually reads Sun Tzu to the Hydroponics orchids. I think he's staging an uprising or something - and he fences like a ninja windmill on speed. I'm... me. And you -" Kirk looked up and down Spock, sizing him up. "- you're supposed to be the reasonable, grounded Science Officer, but you beam down on every mission, relevant or not, and God help anyone who tries to stop you. Chekov needs the extra years to offset the sheer crazy of this crew."

"Nonetheless -"

"No, Spock. I'm not dragging Chekov into any potential war-zones until he's at least twenty. He's too young."

Though Kirk's tone was final, the silence appended to the end of the comment begged questions. Spock just wasn't quite sure which.

The members of the landing party trickled into the alcove one at a time, each depositing their sparse luggage onto the pile. When, at last, Sorel and Morrowith arrived, the team huddled together on the beaming pads in a rough semi-circle behind Kirk. The two security officers had taken it upon themselves to flank the captain, and Spock took Yjehar's place beside Kirk after a quickly given order. It seemed safer. He cast a quick glance at the others. Sorel and the two ensigns were stoic as pillars, Bones and Morrowith looked like they'd rather be knocking back glasses of whiskey in a bar. Uhura flashed him a quick smile. Then Kirk gave the order, and the world dissolved into blinding streams of light.

* * *

><p>The atoms of Spock's eyes came together once more, and he squinted into the bright dual sunlight. It was hot, but pleasantly so - a dry desert heat to bake the last of the Niamh mud from his bones. The landing party was standing on an enormous, windswept platform suspended between two slender towers. Assessing any possible threats in the environment and coming up with a mercifully short list, Spock resisted the urge to pull out his tricorder to examine the unusual construction stretching around them.<p>

It took him a few moments to realize it was not a building, but the city itself - cobweb-intricate, with slender walkways and turrets weaving in amongst each other. Parts were metal, but just as often the constructors had used cream colored stone and what he presumed to be some sort of synthesized compound in various states of transparency. Despite the limited field of vision the middle of the platform afforded him, he could point out at least five constructions in obvious defiance of gravity, and two Penrose staircases.

His fingers itched.

Humanoids began to file from the nearest tower, forming a line opposite the Enterprise crew. Their faces were somber. They were all tall, perhaps a foot taller than their average Human counterparts would be. Their skin was a pale, milky white, and Spock could make out an extensive fluid-transporting network just below the dermal layer. The fluid, like their eyes, ranged in color from deep violet to a pale lilac in the eldest female. Spock mentally traced the veins, noting important intersections and the exact pattern of blood flow. Like in Vulcans, much of it was directed to their hands, which were proportionally large. Neither the males nor the females of the species possessed any hair; whether by art or nature Spock couldn't tell.

There were ten in all - five men, five women. They silently formed a neat line opposite the landing crew. Besides Spock, Ensign Yjehar's hand was twitching and inching into her sleeve. She seemed to be engaged in a silent stare-out with one of the taller Phaetans. Spock raised a hand to straighten his collar, jogging her arm with his elbow. She broke her stare to look at him; he raised the most disapproving eyebrow he could manage. The Phaetans appeared unarmed, and, despite the tense silence, several of them were examining the landing party with obvious curiosity.

For a few moments, everyone waited for someone else to make a move. Then the oldest of the Phaetans stepped forward into the the no-man's land between the two groups. She was wearing loose robes the color of an unbleached cotton-like material, similar to that of the others, with no markings of a different status or office. Despite this, Spock felt the faintest of brushes against his shields as he regarded her. Her presence carried some unquantifiable measure of power; confidence, perhaps, added to age and wisdom. He couldn't accurately determine her age, but he guessed it to be roughly the equivalent of his older self's. Her back was still unbent; time was still an enemy she could keep at bay.

Kirk glanced briefly at Spock, and then stepped forwards to meet her, 'I Am A Diplomat' smile firmly in place.

Spock wasn't quite sure what he'd been expecting - a human handshake, or a gesture similar to the Ta'al - but it certainly wasn't a kneeling Kirk, hands held up in front of him as if warding off a blow. Kirk looked up at the old woman.

"Lady Marin," he said. "I am James Kirk of the Federation. We are honored at your invitation."

The lady placed her palms against Kirk's and Spock felt the air crackle, suddenly charged. His hands burned reflexively, and he curled them into fists.

"James Kirk," she replied. "We are equally honored you came. I see you've read the package information we emailetically transmitted to you." Spock blinked at his translator. She had a curious speech pattern, stressing the syllables as if she were alternating between half a dozen different accents, but she was undoubtedly speaking Standard. "Stand, sweetie. You will excuse our Standard - there were irreconcilable potholes in your nets in how to correctly phrase according to gender and age. I fear you will find our language unusually flat-leveled."

Kirk got to his feet and withdrew his hands. "Not at all. You are an excellent speaker."

She responded by giving him a dazzling smile. "Hm. First Contact, and we still seem to be getting on fairly well. I am glad we did not bring knives to a fight that wasn't a fight at all. This is where we are expected to give a speechifying talk over how we are not wolves in borrowed bearskins?"

"Only if you feel like it."

She glanced sharply at the rest of the team congregated behind Kirk. "Wolves are nice to their own. We are nice to you, Starfleet men."

Ambassador Morrowith nodded. "Duly noted, Lady. We assure you, we harbor no dishonest intentions."

"Seconded," said Kirk. "We're here at your invitation, to improve relations between our cultures, nothing further."

The Marin tapped her teeth with one nail, apparently thinking. "Our culture is such," she said, "that when the suns are very high, it is well-done heat. We go inside, and have lunch in a quiet place. You will be shown your quarters and will eat. Then, you will be shown a little more of our city. It is healthy to see before you speak." She grinned. " And then we will have a talky meal with ambassadoric intentions. You may wear something nice."

If Spock had doubted this was the leader of the Phaetans before, he was now convinced. There was something reminiscent of the older House matri- and patriarchs in _allowing_ people to wear dress uniforms. T'Pau herself would have been proud of the way she gestured for two of her people to come forwards.

"Epia, Crius, you are maps. Escort our fellow wolves."

The Phaetans made an odd little curtsying towards first Kirk and then the Marin, and mirrored the parade rest of the away team while the other Phaetans, one by one, filed off in separate directions down various staircases. The Marin was last to go, striding regally back the way she'd come. The two remaining Phaetans regarded the landing team curiously.

"Come," said the younger of them, a willowy girl with a posture similar to that of the Marin. "Soon, it will be very unpleasant outside. You will want food and shelter."

Their quarters, as it turned out, were not as much far away as they were far up. The group were led across a silvery bridge, and Spock kept his eyes firmly fixed on the ground in front of him. He didn't notice that Kirk had ceded the lead to Uhura, Morrowith and Sorel before the captain appeared at his side.

"What's wrong, Spock?" he asked, voice low.

"It is not - I am in an adequate state."

Kirk effortlessly fell into Spock's stride, his shoulder brushing against Spock's with each step. "S'ok. I'm right here, man. Not gonna let you fall, ok?"

"I am fine, captain. There is no need to escort me."

"I'm not escorting you. I wanted your opinion on something."

"Perhaps you should be talking to our hosts. They seem most courteous."

The corner of Kirk's mouth quirked, and he gave Spock a sidelong glance. "That is exactly why I want them speaking to Morrowith and Sorel. They speak the same language. They're not nearly as forward as the Marin."

"Your method of greeting was highly unorthodox. Might I enquire how -?"

"Uhura. She managed to cobble a bit of information together from what she picked up off their transmissions." He shrugged. "Thought it would make a nice first impression. Apparently the Marin is some sort of mother figure for the entire planet, head of both church and state, which, if I'm to be honest, probably isn't the smartest combination. She seems on the level, though. What do you think?"

"I think she is an influential figure, one which it would be unwise to aggravate. I wish to make further observations before presenting a conclusion. She has a certain presence. I would very much like to know her Esper rating."

"As in, 'She's in your head, so stop thinking about sex,' or 'She's bending your cutlery drawer, so stop leaving your spoons unguarded'?"

"We are on a diplomatic mission. Why would you think about-"

"It's just an expression," Kirk cut him off.

"I see," Spock said lightly. "I am not certain. I do not believe she is a full-fledged telepath. Perhaps it is simply a function of her unquestioned authority. In more sensitive races, there is a small chance that trust on such a scale leads to heightened empathic abilities. In any case I would advocate caution."

Kirk took advantage of the limited space to nudge Spock a little. "Hey, I'm a cautious kind of guy."

"To lend a phrase, 'Bullshit'."

Kirk stuck out his tongue.

Even for a human, he could be extraordinarily petty when it came to having the last word.

* * *

><p>"If we have to walk up those damn stairs every day for two weeks, I'm beaming up right now," McCoy declared. He was sitting in a low couch in the corner cradling a cup of water with the fierce determination of someone who was never, ever going to move again. A warm breeze was wafting in from the open archway to a balcony, but the room was pleasantly cool.<p>

Uhura was stretched out next to him, delicately picking at what might have been a fruit. More were piled in heavy crystal bowls and set out on the table in front of them. "Relax," she said. "The ascent is part of Phaetan culture. They were originally a cave-dwelling species, and climbing upwards symbolizes to them their evolution and the attaining of higher mental states. That we've been given quarters at the top of their highest tower is a great honor."

"Well, now I feel better. I'm not giving myself a heart attack; I'm attaining a higher mental state." He snorted. "Are you sure these are safe to eat, Spock?"

Kirk looked up from his own partially demolished fruit and licked an errant drop of juice from his fingers. "I should have asked that already, shouldn't I?"

Spock was seated on the floor, legs crossed, trying very hard not to stare at Kirk's hands. "Affirmative, Captain. As Science Officer, it is only my duty to inform you of poisonous fruit if asked directly."

McCoy lobbed a small, banana-like pod at his head, and Spock snatched it deftly out of the air.

"Hobgoblin."

"Hardly. My genetic makeup -"

Ambassador Sorel cleared his throat. He was standing in the archway that lead from the larger antechamber in which the others were sitting into the rest of the tower. Somehow even his cough managed to sound severe and disapproving.

"The honored Ambassador Morrowith and myself have settled in. Perhaps you wish to avail yourself of the opportunity to refresh yourselves as well," he said.

"Sounds good," said Kirk. He polished off the remains of his blue fruit and got to his feet. "Anyone else want to stake their claims as to sleeping arrangements while we're at it?"

As it turned out, the floor of the tower they'd been offered contained plenty of rooms. Unlike the arch between the antechamber and the balcony, the sleeping quarters had doors for privacy. The walls and floors were all made of the same cream-colored stone and woven carpets were laid out to lend softness to the hard planes. After Kirk's initial offer to bunk with Uhura had been smacked down determinately, the two security officers and McCoy and Kirk decided to share quarters, leaving Spock and Uhura free to choose the two individual rooms.

They were sparsely furnished, with a low bed along one wall, covered with blankets in the same red-orange colors as the rugs on the floor. There were two chairs and an open archway that lead to a small balcony. Several earthenware pots stood outside, bearing vines that stretched up and around the arch, framing it.

"Nice, huh?" asked Kirk. He was leaning against the doorpost, peering curiously around Spock's room. "I think ours is a bit bigger. Can I borrow your sink? Bones has commandeered ours, and I'm kind of sticky."

"Certainly." Spock tore his eyes away from the arch to the outside in time to catch Kirk sucking the last of the fruit juice from his fingers as he disappeared into the bathroom. He shuddered at the unexpected heat that trickled from his palms to rest low in his stomach and shook his head. Kirk had the same effect on him as the long drop beneath the bridge; vertigo, and a dizzying certainty of falling.

They were collected from their rooms by Epia and Crius an hour later, when the suns had passed zenith. It was still warm outside, but the heat was bearable. Spock estimated it to be around 43,7 Terran degrees and was grateful his human companions had drunk copious amounts of water. It would have been embarrassing to have read up on the dangers of the rare Red Stone arachnid and its venom only to have his charges pass out from dehydration as they were led along bridges and streets to see the city.

Spock tried to keep his eyes on the horizon as much as possible. The city stood on one enormous foundation, firmly anchored in the red desert sands that stretched around it as far as the eye could see. He felt a wistful pang for his home planet as he watched the wind chase the shifting dunes about. Surprisingly, the wind wasn't noticeable where he was standing, and Spock looked closer at the patterns on the ground below. The dunes weren't irregular, as he'd first assumed, but piled up in a perfect curve along the base of the foundation. He ran a quick mental calculation, and reached the conclusion that the average speed of the wind outside the circle was 3,98 times greater than where he was standing to create the existent patterns. Curious, Spock looked up at the sky. There were no clouds to help him verify his hypothesis, save a faint cluster too far off to register their exact speed.

Still, based on the available information, he would guess that the city was partially protected from the elements by some kind of force field. According to his calculations aboard the Enterprise, the temperature should be a good deal hotter than the relatively mild one he was currently experiencing. The technology to maintain such a field would be impressive - years ahead of anything Starfleet had. Fascinating.

Crius and Epia kept up running explanations for what they were seeing, though nothing beyond what could be gathered by simply observing. Their grasp of Federation Standard was much better than the Marin's; though their accents were marked, they kept the number of misappropriated idioms to a minimum. They had obviously studied the language. Spock asked a few questions, but they scrupulously avoided talking about the underlying mechanics of the city, and after a while Spock left the conversation to Uhura, Kirk and the Ambassadors. He preferred to examine the sights as best he could and guess at the specifics. They passed open courtyards, often with a central fountain or pillar to highlight their symmetry, and walked narrow walkways and wide boulevards. Many of the streets they followed were interspersed with stairs or ramps, or spanned by overhanging bridges and arches. Spock was reminded of the hanging dwellings in the cliffs of Shi'Kahr, though there the architecture had been far more open and inviting. The city of Aegle, as Epia called it, was something half labyrinth, half spiderweb. According to her, it housed more than sixty percent of the total population of Phaeton Eta. Spock wondered if this fact had to do with the energy cost of maintaining the protective field around the city. It would be logical to both decrease the city's circumference as far as possible by building upwards instead of outwards and keeping the construction relatively compact, and to center the population behind few, large fields.

Finally, after passing a rather spectacular fountain, the party came to a halt on a high platform overlooking the desert. It was at the very edge of the city. A low wall bordered the edges of it and Spock was grateful; it prevented him from seeing the long drop to the sands below. A Phaetan was sitting on the wall, legs crossed. His eyes were bright violet, and judging by the complete lack of lines on his forehead, Spock estimated him to be at least as young as Epia. Upon noticing the visitors, he slid to the ground as graceful as a cat, and performed an odd sort of knee-bending genuflection.

"Daughter Epia. Honored guests."

Epia pressed the palm of her hand briefly against his, then turned on the humans with a smile. "If you'd excuse me for a breath."

The young man followed her out of the humans' earshot, and Crius gathered them to look at the faint purple outline of a canyon on the horizon. "Most of our food is grown in the earthcuts," he said. "Fungus needs dark and cool to thrive. In the heat of the surface, mostly uneatable plants like to grow..."

Spock caught a faint hiss from the far end of the platform.

"Daelus," Epia said. Spock caught the split-second lag as the universal translators picked up her words and spat them out again in Standard. "You should not be here."

"I wanted to see the Starpeople. Is it true that they have ships bigger than Aegle? How do they steer them, if their hands are so small?"

"Computers. Very advanced ones. They are dangerous - you should not have come. We know so little about what they are really like..." Daelus had his back to Spock blocking Epia's expression from view, but Spock could hear the disapproval in her voice.

"I came exactly because they might be dangerous, Daughter. I want to see what knife's edge you are walking for our sake."

Epia hissed. "Fool. This is my legacy. These are not your risks to take."

"The sky is my risk. If we are to fly the universe, that is my risk. You know what I can do with a spore. I wish to know if I will need to learn how to fly a Starship as well." Daelus spoke with a calm and serious tone that belied his ruffled exterior.

"Not even if the suns swallow us whole."

Daelus cast a quick glance over his shoulder at the others and lowered his voice further. "I will go to dinner. I am the best Touch, it's my right."

"You have no right compared to mine, and I am telling you if they turn on us, you are our champion, and I will defer to you. Until then, I am the Daughter, and you will be kept safe for when you are needed."

"And when will I be needed?"

"When it is time for the harvest, I hope." Epia made a soft little noise that might have been a sigh. "I don't trust them. I wish they were anywhere but here."

"A wish for every grain of sand. We don't have much choice," Daelus bowed his head briefly. "I will not come to dinner, if you ask me not to."

Even from a distance, Spock recognized the expression on his face. It was the one he repressed whenever Kirk pulled rank on him.


	6. He Talks Peace

**A/N: **_Star Trek, Spock, Kirk, McCoy and the assorted tricorders are property of Paramount Viacom. I'm not profiting from this story in any material sense. _

_To everyone who has stuck with the story so far: you are really nice people. Thank you for being so supportive, kind and inventive, and for taking time to share your critique, compliments and theories with me. Also thanks to Dizdayn, who__ has to put up with my overcomplicated plots, and who thins them out with a weed-whacker. (In a good way!)_

_Speaking of plot, I'm really excited about finally getting to this chapter. It was one of my favorite bits back when I was planning how the story would go._

* * *

><p><strong>VI. He Talks Peace<strong>

The high collar of his dress uniform scraped uncomfortably against his jaw and Spock silently wished whomever had designed the uniform a lifetime of wearing their own clothes. He'd been forced to abandon his practical science blues for a fitted black tunic. It fell to just above his knees, and the collar itched like it was made of wool, not silk. He'd decided not to chance formal pants or shoes, on the off chance that he'd need his feet that evening.

Next to him, Epia was explaining the process by which fungi were cultivated to feed the Phaetans. She was sipping a red liquid from a tall crystal bowl identical to the ones laid out in front of the rest of the dinner guests. They were seated around a long stone table. Large platters of fungi had been prepared and lined the tabletop, looking distinctly more reminiscent of Terran salads and vegetable stews than mold. Spock was glad he'd thought to check which species were poisonous to humans aboard the ship. The Marin sat at the head of the table, deep in conversation with Ambassador Sorel, Kirk and Uhura. In the far corner of the room a group of musicians were playing a slow song on their woodwind instruments. They'd filed in unnoticed after everyone had finished eating. Spock was fairly sure that his question about what exactly the Phaetans had picked up from the Fednet had been answered, at least in part.

Maybe it was the assortment of elegantly carved forks ranging in size from 'toothpick' to 'pitchfork' that decorated the centre of the table or the endless deluge of speeches, but the meal reminded Spock of early replicator experiments. The scientists in question had gotten perfectly delicious replicas of whatever food they'd ordered, and they'd had the nutritional equivalent of cardboard. The Phaetans were trying very hard to prove their good intentions in the way humans would expect. They had the customs down, even if they didn't understand the reasoning behind them.

During dinner, night had fallen, and a cool wind wafted in from the open archways carrying the faint scent of spices and mist.

"It is a traditional piece of music," Epia said, gesturing at the musicians. Like the rest of the Phaetans, they had traded their simple white robes from earlier for longer garments of wildly individual designs in all the colors of the sunset. One of them caught Spock's eye over the mouth of his flute-like instrument and blinked slowly with both eyes. He didn't pause for a second in the elaborate series of notes he was adding to the complete melody.

"The piece is a technical achievement. I must admit, I am intrigued as to the traditions surrounding it," Spock said.

"It was written to commemorate the final joining of the people of the seven earthcuts into the people of the Marin. The piece ends rather abruptly; the composer didn't feel that she was doing the event justice, so she leapt off the first completed tower of Aegle before she could commit further errors. We dedicated a fountain to her." Epia gave him a rather perfunctory smile. "We take duty seriously. There is music on your world?"

"There is music on both Earth and T'Priah. It is different, as is to be expected." Spock took a sip of his drink, feeling the faint burn of alcohol in his mouth. It had no effect on his metabolism, but the quick warmth was pleasant. "I do not believe we have ever encountered a culture without music of some fashion or another."

"Music is a part of any life. Later, there will be dancing. You take dancing seriously?"

"I believe some of our number -"

"Actually," Morrowith interjected from across the table. "We do take dancing very seriously. We tend to reserve it for celebrations."

Epia laughed slightly bitterly. "You'll dance well tonight, then. In old times, we danced on the eve of war. It was important to know how to move as one with your friends. Now we dance on the eve of harvests, so we can move as one with the spore-planes."

"Is this a harvest or a war, Daughter? Because I'm getting too old to play guessing games."

Spock frowned. Pike had told him Morrowith was a good ambassador, and Morrowith had decades of experience. He'd expected the other man to defuse Epia, not wind her up further. Morrowith must have picked up undertones to the culture or situation that Spock hadn't; the ambassador managed to survive negotiations with Klingons. People who left a Klingon negotiation table alive were usually brilliant at their jobs.

Epia was still smiling, though her upper lip curved up to reveal two cat-like incisors. "A celebration, naturally."

"No need to get touchy. You're the one who eavesdropped on our communications for three years before deciding to call. We're here because you asked." Morrowith nodded towards Spock. "_Variben veh sochya kuv nam-tor vah goh yut ha-tor_. Isn't that how it goes? He talks peace if it is the only way to live. Makes me wonder why you decided to send for us now, when the Klingons are getting twitchy. Can you feel them breathing down your neck?"

"I am not certain Surak intended the phrase to be applied in such a context," Spock said hastily before Epia could reply.

Morrowith's expression was a shut door. He slowly got to his feet and moved to an empty seat further down the table, next to McCoy. Spock stared after him, confused.

Epia put her bowl down with more force than necessary, producing a dull clunk that reverberated through the crystal.

"I apologize for the Ambassador's unorthodox wording," Spock said. "I believe he meant no insult."

"You're not human." She faced him directly, her voice still frosty. "You have triangle ears. You talk less. Why did you help build Starfleet? You could have left the humans alone. They wouldn't have found you for decades. You could have been in peace a while longer."

"Given time, they would have discovered Vulcan on their own. It is illogical to fear change for change itself. We decided to reach out to the humans in the hopes that we could overcome our differences and create something greater than our individual cultures together."

"All happy together," Epia gave him a rueful smile. "Your planet is a sandstorm in space."

"The humans aided us to the extent of their abilities. Without them, there would be no Vulcan survivors of the Narada affair." Spock distractedly ran a finger along the edge of his bowl. His skin was too dry to make the crystal sing.

"You should be with your people. Run your risks for them."

"I have a duty to my captain and ship. Like you, I take my duties quite seriously."

"Why?" she asked.

"Standard contract of employment," Uhura suggested, "and access to a wonderful laboratory." She was standing by Morrowith's empty chair and leaned on it to adjust a strap on one of her high-heeled sandals. She was wearing a long, red dress with an open back. A young Phaetan was next to her, looking like he wasn't sure whether to talk to her or run as fast as he could.

Uhura eyed the open space in front of the musicians determinately. The music had picked up a little, and a percussionist had joined the woodwinds on the low dais. Several couples had moved to the floor and were swaying gently to the music. Their bodies were an inch or so apart, and the only point of contact between the dancers was their hands, which were crossed at the wrist, pressing their palms together.

"Accompany me?" Uhura asked, offering her arm to the Phaetan. He took her carefully by the hand and led her into the cluster of dancers. She was smiling as radiantly as if she'd swallowed the sun.

"Lieutenant Uhura is exceedingly fond of music," Spock explained to Epia.

Epia nodded, and they watched people filter gradually onto the floor, Enterprise crew and Phaetans alike. Jones was moving in a stiff wobble; his partner looked as though she were trying her utmost not to laugh. Jones apparently had no such compunctions; the third time he accidentally steered them into another couple, he chuckled, shaking his head. Spock bit back a smile as Yjehar shimmied past effortlessly, hand firmly intertwined with her partner's. Between her green skin, blue crewcut and red uniform, she was conspicuously technicolor.

"Celebrations," Epia muttered under her breath.

Most of the people in the room were now moving in synch, swirling to the flutes and drums. Spock had expected Kirk to be dancing with the Marin, but she was leading a surprisingly mellow McCoy around by the wrist, while Kirk was dancing with a pretty young girl. Kirk caught Spock's eye from the fringe of the dancers and bent over to whisper something in his partner's ear. She smiled and bowed her head briefly. Kirk mirrored the gesture then crossed the room to where Spock and Epia were sitting.

"It's a wonderful party," he told Epia. "I trust Mr. Spock hasn't been boring the ears off you with his theories on the practical applications of quantum method."

"He's been perfectly good company."

"I'm glad," Kirk said. Spock noticed that while the captain had abandoned his regular command uniform for an elegant, vaguely asian shirt, he had left the uniform boots on. Kirk looked as though he was certain that his looks alone could defend him from any trouble, but had decided to be prepared anyway, just for the hell of it. That, or he just never took them off. At least he'd polished them since San Francisco.

"Tell me, Spock, how come you haven't asked the pretty lady to dance yet?"

Spock raised an eyebrow. Kirk was staring at him like he was considering mauling him for his breach of etiquette. There was a hungry, dangerous spark in the captain's eyes.

"Dancing is not on my list of competences," Spock said.

"Really?" Kirk sounded faintly taken aback. "In that case, I'll just have to take her off your hands." He extended his hand to Epia. "If you'd do me the honor, Lady?"

She allowed Kirk to pull her to her feet and drag her off. Instead of being absorbed by the mass of dancers, Kirk stopped at the edge of the crowd and crossed their wrists. They were standing close enough for her indigo robe to brush the tips of his boots. Her free hand hung at her side and was obscured by the angle of his vision; at least until Kirk placed it gently on his shoulder, settling them in a half-Terran pose. Spock watched as they fell into step with the music. At first, Kirk faltered but gradually he began to match Epia's confidence. They gathered in speed, circling each other; it was like watching the planets in orbit. Where Epia was proper and elegant, Kirk moved like the dancers in the club in San Francisco, all sinuous twists and raw sensuality. Several of the other couples paused to watch or hurriedly got out of the way. Spock wondered how on Earth it had escaped his notice that Kirk was dangerous; a shade too predatory to conceal. Someone to lure you in and trap you helplessly before you'd realized what had happened; before you'd stopped begging him to come closer.

Then Kirk smiled at Epia, an honest, open smile that made the corners of his eyes crinkle, and suddenly the room was altogether too warm. Spock quietly abandoned his seat and slipped under an arch to the balcony outside. The night was cold. He shivered a little before regaining control of his nervous system. There were three moons in the sky, and they reflected off the metal spires and the desert dunes. _The city is incandescent, but you cannot see it. There is music, but you cannot hear it. Anything beyond the border of your presence does not exist. There is only the serenity of your mind. Center yourself_.

He was unsure how long he stood there.

Eventually, there were footsteps behind him.

"Son of a _bitch_," Kirk swore. He had his arms wrapped tightly around himself and was leaning casually against the handrail. He smelled a little of sweat. "What are you doing out here? It's freezing."

"I desired solitude."

"Should I go?"

Spock shook his head. "Negative. I simply needed a moment to restitute my mental barriers."

"Oh." Kirk lapsed into silence for a moment. "How is that going?"

"Adequately."

He sighed. "Sorry for putting you on the spot about dancing. Is it some sort of Vulcan cultural thing?"

"Vulcans dance when the occasion requires it," said Spock. "I do not. I have some practice with the Vulcan lyre, but I have never attempted to synchronize my movements with musical patterns."

Kirk laughed. "Put it like that, neither have I."

"You are... not untalented."

He shrugged. "I went clubbing a lot in Iowa. It's like riding a bike; you never forget it. Here, I'll show you."

Before Spock could protest Kirk had plucked his hand from the rail and twined it with his own. Their palms were pressed together from the base of the thumb to the tips of their fingers. The effect was not unlike a full-body hug, and Spock instinctively stepped closer to Kirk.

The hungry spark had returned to Kirk's eyes, and his lips were slightly parted. Spock could feel his breath on his cheek and ear and the heat of his body radiating out.

"And then you dance," Kirk said, his voice low.

Spock froze.

His shields were straining under the effort of keeping Kirk's emotions from rushing through him, and his bonded subconscious wanted to close the distance and know just how warm he was; the shape and feel of Kirk's body under his thin shirt. Spock couldn't move closer and couldn't move away.

"Jim -" he didn't know how to continue. Maybe he should just press his mouth to Jim's, and the words would run through them without him having to voice them aloud. He could feel Jim through their connected hands. Perhaps he could speak to him through connected lips and tongues.

Kirk sighed and slowly released Spock's hand. "Bad idea."

Spock observed the clasps of Kirk's shirt intensely. "I am not skilled at dancing."

"You told me. I'll just - I'll just go back in, ok? It's cold out here. Maybe you should come too. Or not. Whatever you like." Kirk tugged on a rebellious tuft of hair that was sticking up by his ear. "It's really cold," he repeated.

There was an ugly, wet gasping sound from inside the room, and the music abruptly stopped.

After enough failed landing missions, you became intimately familiar with the sound of fluid flooding someone's lungs.

Spock was first back through the arch, and he took a step to the side to afford Kirk a straight line of vision. By the table, two Phaetans were on their backs. One lay still, blood dripping steadily past her lips into a puddle on the floor. The other was bucking and struggling, sucking in air in painful gasps.

McCoy shoved his way past a cluster of people.

"Let me through - goddammit, I'm a doctor -" He had a hypospray in hand and a singularly determined expression on his face. Kneeling besides the convulsing man, he tilted back his head with one hand to clear his airways. Blood trickled from the Phaetan's mouth and soaked the doctor's sleeve. McCoy reached for his pocket and pulled out an empty old fashioned hypodermic needle.

He didn't notice Epia standing behind him until she'd effortlessly backhanded him across the room. He collided heavily with the wall and fell to his knees. His nose was bleeding.

"Hell, woman, I'm trying to save his life," he said, bringing one hand up to staunch the blood. "Get out of the way."

Epia knelt into a protective crouch in front of the dying Phaetan. "Poisoner," she snarled.

"Just get the blood out of his lungs before he suffocates!" McCoy tossed the syringe at her.

Things happened very quickly.

Epia batted the needle away like it would bite her and lunged for McCoy's throat. Kirk jerked forward with a cry, but the security officers were faster - two streams of phaser fire caught Epia effectively in the chest, flinging her away from McCoy. She collapsed in a boneless heap on the floor. Jones and Yjehar trained their phasers on the Marin, and Morrowith pulled another weapon out of his boot to aim at Crius. His papery face was wrinkled with fear and anger.

"Stop it," Kirk ordered, stepping forwards. He jerked his head at the struggling man on the floor. "Bones, see to him. The rest of you, lower your weapons."

The man who had been dancing with Yjehar launched himself at Kirk, wrapping his arm around the captain's neck in a punishing grip. Kirk grunted and drove his elbow into the man's midriff but underestimated the Phaetan's speed. He twisted Kirk's arm sharply, eliciting a gasp of pain. Then he straightened, drawing Kirk's body tight against him like a bow string.

"I'll break his neck," he hissed. "Move, and I'll break his neck."

Spock stopped breathing. Reaching out, he delivered a swift pinch to the Phaetan's shoulder. It gave way beneath his fingers, and the man yelled in pain and surprise. He wasn't unconscious. Not even close. Desperately, Spock punched him in the side. He felt ribs give way, and the Phaetan reflexively loosened his grip on Kirk's neck. The captain twisted loose and danced quickly out of his reach.

Spock barely noticed. His blood was howling for pain and destruction.

Bringing up his other hand, he went for the Phaetan's neck, cutting off his air supply. The man struggled, clawing at his hands. He was stronger than Kirk had been. He grabbed the tip of one of Spock's ears and pulled. The pain was instant and red-hot, and followed up with a kick to the knee that could have shattered bones.

"Shoot him!" someone yelled. Spock couldn't make out who it was over the roaring in his ears. A hand tugged roughly at his elbow, and he found himself dragged under by a wave of fear, determination, and worry.

"Spock," Kirk said gently. The Phaetan had retreated a step and was clutching his side.

He couldn't kill him. If he tried, Spock could almost remember why. Logic. That was important. And -

"Get out, Captain," Yjehar ordered. "Get everyone out. I'll cover your retreat." She aimed her phaser at Epia's prone body and adjusted the setting with an audible click. "Don't move, or I'll kill her."

The air became thick with static, and a deep hum permeated the room. Spock felt it burrow in through his temples, filling his mind with burning, excruciating noise. As if from a great distance, he heard Kirk hit the floor next to him. Then he couldn't think at all, couldn't scream, and it hurt _so much_ -

"_Enough_," said the Marin, and the noise faded. Her hands were open in front of her, and the three phasers lay harmlessly in her open palms. Several of the metal plates clattered to the floor as they shifted across the table towards her. She looked as though she'd been slapped, mouth half open in shock.

Spock rolled onto his side, breathing shakily. Jim was three point two feet away, blue eyes hazy below half closed eyelids. He blinked once then put his palms to the floor and hauled himself upright. Uhura was helping Sorel to his feet as well. The ambassador raised an eyebrow at the sight of Kirk then his gaze fixed on Spock.

"Fascinating," he mouthed at the younger Vulcan. The tips of Spock's ears burned, and he set his jaw.

"Stay." The Marin ordered, regaining her composure. Her hands were clenched around the weapons, and her eyes were blazing violet. She bent down and carefully touched the inside of the second Phaetan's wrist, the one who had been thrashing about. A shadow crossed her face, and for a moment she looked much older. Then she folded his hands over his chest reverently and stood.

"He is dead. We have all behaved like fools."

"Lady Marin, I can assure you that none of my men are behind this assault." Kirk was wobbly on his feet, but Spock knew better than to try and steady him when he needed most to show that he was in command. "We will offer medical help to any who need it, but we will not become embroiled in your internal politics. Under the laws of the Federation, you are to ensure the safety of any diplomatic parties currently engaged in negotiations with your government. We understand that this was an accident and accept our share of the blame for the escalation, but we will not see this happen again. I'm not willing to risk the lives of my crew, do you understand?"

The Marin showed a lot of teeth in the smile she gave Kirk. "Count your own black sheep. None of mine did this. There is no political conflict beyond what you brought. We will not hold this against you, but the terms of our negotiative transfer will change."

"And if we cannot accept your new terms?"

"Then you go," said the Marin. "Run and tell Starfleet that if they have fingers that twitch on the triggers when they shouldn't, we will call their ships out of the sky and into the canyons where the buzzards can lick clean the metal."

"We won't negotiate just because you threaten us. If we're going to come to an agreement here, it has to be a mutual one. You can't make a deal based on backstabbing and fear," said Kirk.

"No backstabbery. Just facts." She sighed. "We will lock you in your rooms. We have respects to watch over and discussions to turn over. In the morning, we will diplomatize. You will be nice, I think."

Slowly, he shook his head. "Some of us will not be comfortable with this. They will be given amnesty."

"No. No beaming. No running to the sky. We will be needing the poison-killer first. You cannot leave."

Kirk shrugged. "Then we have no deal."

"Then we might as well keep you."

"Whatever." He gave her his most blindingly insincere grin. "Did you know that the Klingon Empire likes to visit non-federation planets? You're pretty technologically advanced. Now Starfleet has all sorts of nifty regulations that prohibit us from tearing apart the planet by force and taking what we want, 'cause we're just nice that way -"

The Marin barked out a laugh and held up one of the confiscated phasers by the barrel. "No intimidation. So very, very true, until you need something."

"Just pointing it out," Kirk said pleasantly. "The Klingons will probably be here within the decade. Have fun with your Federation database red flag. No ships are going to come within a parsec's radius of the place."

"In the morning, who wants to be ionized to your ship may go," she answered. "You will stay, James Kirk, until we reach a peaceable conclusion. I have read the interlinking communications of your Federation, and they will not come for you. If, at the end of our negotiations, you have been unable to find the murderer and present him to us for safekeeping, you will be punished in his stead. His actions are bound to yours. He follows your lead."

He nodded once. "That sounds fair."

Spock stepped closer to Kirk. "Captain," he muttered, mouth to Kirk's ear. "This is not acceptable. It is possible that a peaceable resolution will never be reached. You cannot stay. Starfleet has a debt to you and are morally obliged to secure your retrieval -"

"Nothing to worry about then, is there, Spock?"

Spock wanted to punch him for his arrogance. Kirk knew nothing about the Phaetan justice system. There was a planet on the edge of the Prometheus system where murder was punished by a year of torture for every good deed the victim had committed. Another, a planet of psionically gifted humanoids near Andoria, would confine the murderer in his own mind, unable to wake from endless nightmares for the rest of his life. Kirk was gambling his future on too many unknown variables. It was a foolish betrayal of the oath Kirk had taken upon being promoted to Captain - to serve the Federation, the Enterprise and its crew to the best of his abilities. If he failed, he would be left behind. Spock's hands were shaking, and he took the excess energy and directed it inwards, towards his shields. _You cannot do this!_ he yelled at the bond.

He thought he caught a spilt second of hesitation as Kirk bowed his head to the Marin.

"Well, if that's all settled, we'll leave you to your black sheep hunt. Early day tomorrow, apparently." Kirk paused, and held out his hand. "We'll need our phasers back. Starfleet regs say we can't leave any technology behind on missions like this."

"They will be broken into small bits. You have my promise." She wrinkled her nose, looking offended. "Not like you need further weapons when you serve us half-truths for lunch."

Kirk opened his mouth to say something, but Sorel cut him off before he could make a sound. "An acceptable compromise, Lady. We will inspect the parts, of course, but all that can be settled with time and perspective." He bowed briefly in the manner of the Phaetans then offered the Ta'al. "Peace and long life. May Surak grant us the logic to resolve this matter without conflict."

"Bit late now, isn't it?" McCoy muttered under his breath.

Sixteen Phaetans were assigned to escort the eight of them, and every one of them was equipped with a large, dual-bladed staff that looked largely ceremonial. The smaller, black staff tucked in a cloth sash by their hip was less ornamental and if Spock had to hazard an unscientific conclusion, a lot more dangerous. The black staff had no sharp edges and would be largely inefficient as a bludgeoning tool. Based on the crystal, non-conductive grip, he estimated it was a sophisticated equivalent to a Terran electro-shock weapon. Spock kept his eyes firmly on Kirk's back and fell to the tail of the procession, where he would be in a better position to stall combat should the Marin change her mind and send further soldiers to finish off the troublesome off-worlders.

Sorel was staggering along, dragging his feet with every step. One of the guards prodded him roughly with his black stick. Nothing happened, though the weapon still looked sinister to Spock - a bomb in an innocuous package.

"I am weary," said Sorel. "And my arms and legs are not fully recovered from the Lady's disarmament of the conflict. In the interest of expediency, would you deny me the aid of a friends' arm?"

Catching Sorel's drift, Spock allowed the older Vulcan to lean heavily on his shoulder. Sorel's limbs were slender, and his veins were clearly visible, branching out like olive rivers under the skin. Spock was struck by the illogical idea that Sorel's ceremonial robes probably weighed more than the Vulcan himself did.

"Are you in any pain?" Spock muttered under his breath in Vulcan. Judging by how careless Daelus and Epia had been with their private conversation of the platform, the Phaetans did not have the hearing to pick up on his voice.

"There was some residual static from the Marin's attack. I have eliminated it." Sorel leaned in a little closer. "I told you that overt emotional displays, especially those of violence, are not uncommon in survivors of Vulcan. Though I must admit that the determination with which you reacted to your captain's assailant surprised me at first."

"Surprise is an emotion," Spock said monotonously. "One should not draw conclusions until presented with all the available data and even then, accept that no theory is so complete as to be beyond doubt."

"Indulge with me in unfounded speculation, Commander. What is your opinion of the mental strike the Marin utilized against us?"

He thought it over, recalling the hum of power in the air and the shifting plates. "If I were to speculate," he said slowly, "I would say that she seemed as taken aback as we were. I do not believe it was her intention to harm us. However, she showed remarkable ability in adapting to the situation."

"Excellent." The corner of Sorel's mouth quirked, and Spock was reminded of his teachers on Vulcan, who would ask questions they knew the answers to simply to observe his thought processes. He reacted as he had then, forcibly ejecting all emotion from the organization of arguments.

"I am adequately shielded against mental intrusion, but she seems to operate on a different frequency," he said. "Perhaps she was attempting to manipulate the electrical and magnetic field surrounding the city on a small scale to draw the weapons to her, rather than attack us directly. She seems to have certain psychokinetic abilities, though I cannot say if these extend to include telepathy."

"Your theory is sound. It does exclude some points of information, though."

"Indeed?"

Sorel tightened his grip on Spock's shoulder imperceptibly. "Only three entities felt the effects of the psychic strike. If the attack was preconceived, and she were too weak a telepath to render all Enterprise crewmembers ineffective, it would make sense to focus on the greatest threats; the weapons, the physically stronger Vulcans, and the captain. If the psychic effects were inadvertent, it would likely only be noticed by those with exceptional psi-readings. Captain Kirk's Starfleet file ranks him as a point four on the Esper scale."

The Esper scale ranged from zero to twelve, with Vulcans at a round five. Point four was just below the sentient mud slugs from Ganymede Beta IV, who were able to telepathically turn things purple and not much else. Point four was a fairly good rating for a human but far below what would be needed to explain a reaction such as Kirk's.

"The captain is unpredictable," Spock said. "If there are complications to be had, he will defy extraordinary odds to receive his due share in them."

"Perhaps," Sorel conceded.

The unspoken hung between them. Any type of recent mental interference could have left Kirk more vulnerable to attack. A bond could conceivably function as a live wire between Spock's mind and Kirk's, stringing the disturbance along like lightning in a copper thread.

"Are you familiar with the esteemed Ambassador Selek?" Spock asked.

"I have assisted him in the past." The words were punctuated with a heavy silence, and all it implicated. If Sorel had been in Older Spock's head, he would know all about his views on friendship and bonds. "_Orishansu_, I do not mean to pass judgment upon your situation. But I cannot help but think that you are being ruled by emotion in this."

"You know my situation," he said. "But I am not the ambassador. My choices are not his. I will beg your discretion."

"I cannot offer you any promises until I have investigated further."

Spock nodded. "I understand. When this mission is complete, the captain and I will both submit to a full investigation -" _Yes, we will_, he told himself firmly. _Even Jim. This is your fault. If you cannot fix it, you should never have done it._ "- and we will ask your aid in severing the bond. Did the ambassador explain to you the circumstances under which it was formed?"

"Affirmative. It is for the circumstances alone I am making an exception to regular procedure," Sorel said stiffly. His mouth twisted in what might be a frown on a more expressive individual. "Take care. On this planet, it would seem that your bond only serves to place the captain in additional danger. And you are not healed in mind. You are a danger to him yourself."

"The captain will not be harmed by me."

It was as near to an oath as Spock could make it. He silently vowed that he would sever the bond before letting any harm come to Kirk on his or anyone else's behalf, no matter the cost.

* * *

><p>It was a weary and disillusioned bunch who slouched in a rough circle around the table in the tower rooms that had been assigned to the Enterprise crew. Uhura and McCoy had resumed control of the low couch, and Morrowith was leaning heavily against the back of a woven armchair, massaging his temples as though he was in pain. Kirk had his chin propped in both hands and was chewing on his lip distractedly, a gesture which Spock found a little childish and oddly endearing.<p>

"Well, that was a success," said the captain with a glance towards the locked doors to the rest of the compound. The previously open arches to the balcony were sparking with blue electricity, neatly obscuring the city from view.

"You've got your vocabulary swapped again, Sir," Uhura offered sweetly. "Might I recommend 'disaster' for your current linguistic needs?"

"Shitstorm," McCoy suggested. He was fiddling with the sleeve of his shirt and his tricorder.

"Clusterfuck," Kirk decided. "But that's not what I meant. Tomorrow we get you beamed back to the ship, and I'll try and sort out this mess." He gave them a tired smile. "Shouldn't be so hard, right?"

"I'm staying," McCoy declared. His eyes flickered to the force fields by the arches. "And that's presuming they let us go at all."

"They will," Morrowith said. "The Federation-"

"Is unlikely to come to our aid," Sorel cut him off. "We knew the terms, Robert. Starfleet does not want to risk open war with the Phaetans. They cannot afford to divert any troops from patrolling the border of the Neutral Zone. If the mission fails, this diplomatic party will be denounced as aggressors and a shame to Starfleet." He shrugged. "It is logical. A war would only serve to ally them with the Klingons."

"Starfleet owes us," Jones protested. "We saved Earth from Nero. I wrote a drinking song about it and all."

Kirk sighed and picked up an empty cup from the table. He turned it over in his hands. "Yeah, well, we're still on probation for being young and competent." He sent the cup hurtling towards the force fields with a flick of his wrist. It collided with a bright flash, and the charred remains crashed to the floor in a dozen pieces. "So here's what's going to happen-"

"I'm _staying_," McCoy repeated.

"- tomorrow, when we're all rested and un-bitchy, I will decide who stays on. Me. The captain. The rest will return to the Enterprise. Anyone still on the planet will clear up the loose ends, Scotty will beam us up like the awesome diplomats we are, and Jones gets to sing about it over the ship's speaker system. Am I missing anything?"

"Details, sir?" Uhura suggested.

"You are assuming that the attacks weren't simply a ploy to gain a valuable hostage," Spock snapped. Sorel threw him a warning look, but he couldn't bring himself to regret the comment.

"I don't get it," Jones sighed. "Why don't we just beam up and tell the brass they tried to suck our brains with bendy straws or summat?"

McCoy beat both Kirk and Spock to the punch. "You know what an artery is?"

Jones nodded vigorously.

"They teach us to aim for them," Yjehar added.

"Oh, for the love of-" McCoy rolled his eyes. "Right. So you know what sort of damage it can do to a man when you disrupt the internal blood flow. Now, imagine breaking a man's body down into a cloud of little particles buzzing about all over the goddamn place, gettin' all jangled by whatever magnetism and electricity might be floating about and then reassembling just _exactly_ right."

"Er -"

"If you reassemble an artery wrong, you'd probably die from internal hemorrhaging. At best, you'd probably lose a limb. Not to mention the damage it would do if something in your brain wasn't connected right." McCoy shrugged. "Teleportation's damn foolhardy. There is a reason we don't do it over long distances. Bigger chances of gettin' jangled. Now, that old lady down there, she screwed the magnetic field three ways to Sunday, and she wasn't even breathin' hard. I ain't exposing my atoms to her whims, if you get what I mean."

McCoy would lay his southern accent on thick in several kinds of situations, Spock had noticed. He'd do it while inebriated, or emotional. He'd do it while playing up the 'I'm just a poor country doctor, but I know what I know' angle, and he'd do it while driving home his point with a jackhammer. Spock was certain that McCoy wasn't inebriated - or at least not inebriated enough for this to be a contributing cause to his sudden Georgia flavor. He guessed that the latter three all played their parts, though. McCoy was tense as a bowstring and doling out scowls liberally between concerned glances at his tricorder.

"Well, that's nice to know," Morrowith said quietly. "We're looking upon possible murder in case we try to beam up. Good to know where we stand." He sighed. "These negotiations are as pointless as selling sand to the Vulcans."

Spock seized upon the lull in the conversation. "Captain, if I may have a word with you in private -"

"Tomorrow, Spock," Kirk looked as though he knew exactly what the conversation would be about. "Everything will seem clearer once we've slept-"

Morrowith broke in, "Seconded. My head feels like it's about to split. Remind me again why I came out of retirement?"

No-one answered him. Outside, the wind whistled through the archways. It sounded shrill, unnatural, a neutered wind that had been filtered, broken and bent. On Vulcan, the sound had always carried with it a coarse grittiness, small particles of sand that, given enough time, could wear down a mountain.

"We shouldn't split up," Kirk said. "I'd feel a lot better if everyone slept in here where we can keep an eye on each other."

"I will take the first watch," Spock volunteered. "I do not require as much sleep as a-"

"Yeah, yeah," Kirk waved him off. "Promise you'll wake me when it's my turn, ok?"

Spock went to fetch blankets and hoped that the captain hadn't noticed the duration of his turn hadn't been specified. He'd already lost emotional control once that evening and didn't feel like taking his chances with the dreams. Better not to sleep at all and spend the time in meditation than to wake up compromised and ill. Failing mental discipline was bad enough in his quarters where there was no-one to witness his distress.

Morrowith, being the second-to-oldest and least limber of the landing party, was given the couch, while Sorel slept on the pillows of the partially disassembled chairs. Everyone else rolled themselves in their bed blankets and quickly gave themselves over to the silent, motionless sleep of the exhausted. Spock settled cross-legged, facing the door, and prepared himself for a long night.

Except - the doctor's breathing pattern was irregular and rapid. Concerned, Spock examined the bundle that was McCoy. His eyelids were fluttering. Well.

Spock raised an eyebrow and waited.

Sure enough, McCoy cracked his eyelids, and started. "Jesus Christ, Spock. Give me a heart attack, will you? Why in the name of all that's holy -"

"For what purpose did you elect not to rest?"

"Not to stare creepily at my fellow officers, that's for sure."

"Your logic is questionable, as the act of not staring might be facilitated by maintaining your eyelids shut."

"Oh, for the love of -" Even though he was whispering, McCoy managed to sound exasperated. "I wanted your opinion on something, and I didn't think it would be a good idea to show everyone. Here." He stripped off his formal tunic and offered it to Spock.

"By all means, keep on your undershirt."

"As if -" the doctor spluttered. "I wasn't about to show you my _chest_, you ingrate elf. The poor bastard who asphyxiated bled on my sleeve. See the stain, there? I did the best I could to figure out the composition of the poison with what I've got down here."

Spock nodded.

McCoy held up the screen of his tricorder so Spock could see. "Now, I'm not sure, but this ain't anything like the chemical compositions of the organic stuff we've seen here so far."

Spock took the tricorder out of McCoy's hand and called up a molecular model of the isolated poison. He rotated it so he could examine the complicated cluster of atoms from all angles.

"You did the correct thing," Spock finally said. "This is something to be shared with the captain. It is a distillation of Pterostylis Rigelliana."

"Oh, well that clears up matters some."

"You are unfamiliar with the Latin?"

"You think? It's not a body part, so just give me the implications in Standard."

"It is an extract of the Rigellian Blood Orchid. The orchid is a rare plant, named in part for its crimson color, in part for the way the poison it produces spreads rapidly through the blood and facilitates a degeneration in the capillaries and brain tissue. It is deadly to most known races, among them humanoids." Spock tapped the screen with his index finger. "It a hybrid between a Terran orchid and the Rigellian V'kush."

He could see the gears working in McCoy's mind as the doctor snatched back the tricorder to stare at the screen. "Not native to Phaeton, then."

"The closest living example of the plant is located the hydroponics labs aboard the Enterprise," Spock said.

"One of us, then," McCoy mused. "Well, that's good. We'll get Jim out of the fix he landed himself in yet."

"You are remarkably calm for a man who stands to lose a valuable friend."

"Oh, come now." He smiled weakly at Spock. "Neither of us were really going to let them have Jim without a fight, were we?"

* * *

><p><em>...dun dun DUN. Couldn't resist. Constructive criticism makes the story better :)<em>


	7. Night Vigil

_**A/N: **Wow, you guys. Thank you for all the reviews and support for the last chapter - it's both humbling and amazing to read your comments. You're awesome, and you make my day. I wish I could provide dancing and murdering for you every chapter and still have plot coherency. Since I can't, here's a dialogue-heavy chapter to set up the next bit of the story; bear with me, please, I promise there will be more action!Spock later. _

_Until then, have this._

_()()()_

_"I think," said Spock as he took out another zombie with a perfectly aimed headshot, "that perhaps Paramount should have elected to hire Mr. Abrams to depict our ongoing adventures. I am not quite sure the estimable Mr. Romero has fully embraced the expected ambience of this franchise."_

_Kirk tossed his shotgun aside with a clatter as he ran out of bullets. "Yeah, bitch!" he shouted at the oncoming, decaying hordes in their tattered red uniforms. "You scared? You scared? You want a piece of this brain? Come get it!" He pulled a baseball bat out of the holster on his back, and threw an aside glance at Spock. "You're leaning on the fourth wall again," he said. "Shut up and shoot something."_

_()()()_

_Everything belongs to Paramount Viacom, and a__s always, my wonderful beta Dizdayn deserves hugs, cookies and unicorns for taking time out of her schedule to help with this. _

* * *

><p><strong>VII. Night Vigil<strong>

Spock kept an ever growing list of things he did not understand about the Enterprise and the illogical humans aboard her. Occasionally he would check something off it, usually as a result of prolonged meditation on the subject, carefully noted observations, or a enlightening conversation with Nyota. Conversely, conversations with McCoy and Kirk tended to yield more points to add to the list. The list was kept in his eidetic memory with additional notes to the various points on the private PADD in his quarters aboard the Enterprise. There were several of these points he'd give a significant portion of his lab equipment to receive an explanation for.

Notable among his queries was the inverse ratio of people who knew about the brewing vat in the spare coolant tub to the amount of people who were willing to condemn bootlegging. There was Kirk's turning a blind eye to the at-the-time underage Chekov joining forces with McCoy to prevent the entire engineering department from going blind from the experiments with ethanol, resulting in Scotty's whiskey/white liquor fusion gradually morphing into pure vodka. There were human idioms, full stop, colorful and with origins so shrouded in the mists of forgotten context that they were nigh indecipherable. There was Sulu's habit of reading to the plants in hydroponics. There was Kirk, and again, a full stop was required. And now, most importantly, there was the question of why, for the love of all the stars in the sky, the Biologists aboard the ship would choose to cultivate an admittedly rare, but easily deadly, orchid in a lightly guarded laboratory.

There was no question that the poisoner had come from the Enterprise - or had contact with someone who was a part of the crew. The problem lay in ascertaining for what reason poison had been employed on a peaceful mission. Once answered, Spock presumed it would illuminate the secondary questions of the assailant's identity and the intended targets. Then there was the matter of transporting it - it could have been contained in a small vial of some sort. He remembered the scuffle following dinner with dismay. It would have been a simple matter for anyone to toss a bottle from the balcony to the sands below. To be honest, he didn't remember many of the movements of the individual members of the landing party. There'd been too much of Kirk's dancing at first and too much adrenaline later.

Spock didn't want to light a candle and risk waking anyone, but he felt the need for meditation and so settled with his fingertips pressed together and his legs crossed. After a few moments, he brought his hands down to rest on his knees instead, palms upwards like flowers to the sun. He didn't need control as badly as illumination tonight.

When the first tinges of pink began to mark the sky, he gently shook Kirk awake. Kirk propped himself up on his elbow, blurry eyed.

"What time'sit?" he asked. His eyes narrowed as he took in the pale morning light. "You didn't wake me. Spock, have you slept at all?"

"Affirmative." _Yesterday_. "Captain, something has come up. Doctor McCoy ran an analysis on the substance which caused the death of the Phaetan victim." He handed over the tricorder, the chemical analysis of the poison still revolving on the screen. Kirk perused it, then looked up with furrowed brows.

"Sulu's orchids?"

"Pterostylis Rigelliana," Spock said.

"Yeah, but you're sure they're Sulu's orchids?"

"Pterostylis -" Kirk held up a hand, and Spock amended his answer. "Yes, I am sure. Sulu's orchids do not simply sprout from the ground. They require highly specialized care outside their native environment. Plants cannot simply be taken out of their biological context without consequences. The odds of there being another orchid within a ten-quadrant radius are seventy billion fifty-five thousand and four to one."

Kirk jiggled the tricorder. "Our poisoner wasn't walking around with a flowerpot, Mr. Spock. He could have gotten the poison on Rigel. I'm guessing your Rigellian pterodactyls grow there."

"The chemical integrity of the compound degrades after removal from the flower. If the poison resided in a storage container for more than two solar days, it reverts to being simply water, glucose and salts." Spock got to his feet and motioned for Kirk to precede him into one of the guest rooms. "I would prefer if we could continue this conversation in private."

The rest of the landing party was still asleep, rolled into individual logs and curls under their blankets. Uhura was closest to the window, and Spock noted that a few strands of hair had escaped her ponytail and fell across her face. They fluttered with her breaths. It was strangely reassuring.

Kirk settled in the nearest armchair in what was to have been Spock's room. He was biting distractedly at his lower lip, and his eyes were still faintly clouded from sleep.

Spock gently closed the door behind him, then whirled on Kirk. "What were you _thinking_?" he snapped. "Offering yourself up as collateral in case we fail to discover the perpetrator of the killings is illogical and achieves no gain significant enough to warrant the personal consequences of your ill-considered diplomatic gambit. Furthermore, according to Starfleet regulations, the captain is not to be abandoned excepting the most dire of circumstances."

"Things are a _little_ dire. It was the only way to ensure the rest of the landing party would be assured amnesty," Kirk said serenely. "Best way to get us all back on the Enterprise is to find the killer."

"There are no guarantees we will be successful in this endeavor."

"Of course we will. I'm not settling down on a planet without a decent burger joint." He stapled his fingers. "So, one of us is a spy."

Spock knew a badly disguised attempt to change the subject when he heard one but felt that the point bore correcting. "A spy would imply that he, or she, serves the interests of an organization other than Starfleet. This is not necessarily the case, though, with the current political tensions, it seems likely."

"Alright, Sherlock. Let's eliminate the impossible. How long does the poison need to work?"

"The effect is instantaneous. Capillary degeneration commences upon ingestion."

"Everybody was drinking during dinner, so whoever spiked the drinks would have had to do it while we were distracted with the dancing. It would probably have been easier that way, too."

Spock furrowed his brow. "There is also the matter of the intended target. The Phaetans do not seem to maintain sources of food and drink strictly individual. They simply drank from the nearest beverage."

Kirk frowned at the implications. "The poisoner was either really stupid not to notice, or simply didn't care who they took out. Wonderful." He scowled down at the table as if it had personally betrayed him. "Who do you think wants to throw the mission?"

"I do not have sufficient information to answer that question."

"We guess, then. Jones, Bones and I were all dancing at the time, so we're out. You were out on the balcony for ages, so you're out -"

"Your faith in me is inspiring."

"Yeah, you'd totally poison those suckers. Good thing you have an alibi. Uhura and Yjehar both got something to drink -" Kirk stopped and swallowed. "Thank God they picked the right cups. Anyway, theoretically, either of them could have done it. I think we can cross Uhura off the list, though."

Spock agreed. It was true that until thoroughly disproven, even the most unlikely theories bore consideration, but it would nevertheless be prudent to eliminate the improbable before starting in on the impossible. Besides, he knew Nyota, and if he were to select one human in whose hands to place the fate of an alien race, it would be hers. She could be sharp, but she was never cruel or careless.

"Did either ambassador have sufficient opportunity to administer the poison?"

"Um." Kirk bit his lip. "I think Sorel was talking to one of the musicians. He might have managed it if he were quick. I can't remember what Morrowith was up to. Talking to Crius, maybe?"

Privately, Spock thought Morrowith the most likely suspect. He'd had access to the orchids, although all the suspects could reasonably be expected to know the effects of the poison. Furthermore, the ambassador was not what Spock had expected; he was erratic and unpredictable, bitter and unyielding where Spock had anticipated the talented negotiator who'd helped broker the neutral zone.

"This is ridiculous." Kirk sighed. "We've got the Klingons breathing down our fucking necks, the Phaetans on the fence about whether to dine or decapitate us, and to be honest, I just can't imagine any one of us would be a rogue agent." He frowned, considering what he'd said. "Yesterday, when we first arrived, you mentioned the possibility that the Marin might be psychic. Could she have engineered this, somehow? To gain leverage over Starfleet?"

"It is technically possible, though unlikely. Ensign Yjehar did express a marked interest in bringing unusual weaponry on the mission; she could conceivably have brought the poison with her for job-related purposes. The Marin could have telepathically discovered and taken advantage of the fact."

"But...? That sounds pretty likely."

Spock thought it sounded like a lot of coincidences piled on top of each other to make a theory that appealed to Kirk's sense of loyalty.

"There are certain limits to telepathy," he offered instead. "Most races require physical contact to breach the natural barriers of the mind and perceive or influence the thought process. Furthermore, you cannot force another being to act contrary to their nature without repercussions."

"The Marin couldn't just have stepped in and pulled her strings a bit? Gotten between her brain and her body or something? I think I read a report back in the academy about some race that did that-"

"The Ensign did not complain of a blackout, and if she had been conscious for the experience, I cannot imagine she would have kept silent. Additionally, there are certain signs of complete possession which both Sorel and I would have noticed. It is possible to twist someone's mind into irrational actions by emphasizing certain events and personality traits inherent to the subject, but it requires some time and subtlety. It is possible that the Marin is endowed with telepathic powers that transcend current knowledge, but it is highly improbable."

"That's a 'no', then?"

Kirk looked searchingly at him, and Spock caught a flicker of stone in his expression. The Captain was hiding his feelings. How unusual. And - Spock raised his eyebrows a hair - he was good at it. If he hadn't known what to look for, he might not have noticed. He wasn't sure what unsettled him more about the situation, that the incredibly expressive Jim had learned to hide emotions without Spock ever noticing, or that he tried to hide things from him. Though he was glad on his Captains behalf - a large part of the trouble they got in was a direct result of the Captain's gift for feeling simply and deeply - his secrecy rankled. Spock wondered what had brought about this change in him.

In this case, it was easy enough to guess what he was feeling. Kirk was absolutely livid that someone in his crew had killed innocent people and endangered his ship, his men and his mission. More than that, he was betrayed; he offered himself without reservation to protect his crew. He deserved similar devotion.

"That is a no. I am sorry, Jim. We will need to monitor the ambassadors and Ensign Yjehar carefully. I would not recommend that you let them return to the ship until the matter is resolved."

"Of course not," Kirk said. "The Enterprise is technically Federation territory. If they get back there, they can demand to be tried by a Starfleet court, and then it'll be our word against theirs. Apparently, I'm not a very good poster boy." He frowned. "If they stay on-world, it comes down to the Marin. We could make the guilty party sign some sort of confession of guilt before taking them back."

Spock was vaguely surprised by Kirk's knowledge of protocol. He'd just assumed the daily flinging of rules at the Captain had been an in-through-one-ear-out-the-other sort of effort, but apparently some of it had stuck. Then again, Kirk was a good deal smarter than he pretended to be. Spock had a direct link into his head, and he still hadn't discovered the exact boundaries of Kirk's intelligence.

"If you extort a confession out of the perpetrator, it will not hold up in court," Spock pointed out, "And the Marin would not take kindly to any attempts to bring them with us."

Kirk waved dismissively at what Spock assumed were his morals. "I'm not going to extort. I'll just offer them a significantly nicer alternative to the death penalty, or whatever the Marin wants to do to them. As for taking them back to Earth, we'll just cross that bridge when we come to it."

"Indeed." Spock would prefer to deport the perpetrator to Federation justice, but if it came down to a choice between a formal court martial and bringing Kirk back with them, there was no competition.

"I don't think we're going to tell the others about the orchids," Kirk said. "We don't want our poisoner to get cautious."

He still looked like he was thinking of quite another thing than he was putting into words, and Spock briefly considered asking him outright. He was instantly horrified with himself. Were Kirk a Vulcan, doing so would have been a terrible insult. If a person chose to conceal their thoughts, that was their prerogative. Unless there was a distinct danger to others, privacy was an unalienable right. If Kirk was making an effort in to be less transparent, he should be encouraged.

"I'm beaming up Uhura, Jones and Bones," Kirk informed him.

"Doctor McCoy is unlikely to go graciously."

"Yeah. How would you make him realize it's for his own good, even though he really thinks he should stay?" he asked.

Spock considered it. McCoy was stubborn as a mule. There probably _wasn't_ a way to make him go graciously. "I think," he finally said, "that those who wish to remain should be given that opportunity. It would increase the odds of success for this mission."

"Um. Yeah. While we're on the topic, Spock-"

"Furthermore, given the potentially violent nature of the perpetrator, it would afford us additional manpower for the protection of both the Phaetans and ourselves."

Kirk grimaced. "Sorry, Spock. Phaeton Eta is turning out to be a bit more exciting than I'd expected, and I need you on the ship."

"Negative. My first duty is to ensure the continued running of the Enterprise, and I intend to do so by assuring the safety of her Captain." Spock's tone had the consistency of hardened cement.

"Oh, no. I have a nice little list of logical reasons why you should listen."

"Hardly-"

"Item One, should anything go wrong, you're Acting Captain. You'll have to get the Enterprise back to Earth, and explain why it all went to hell in a handbasket. And, let's face it, you're probably the only one on the ship who can do that in an official enough way that the entire crew doesn't get demoted." Kirk held up a hand to silence Spock's protests. "Item Two, I might need information or whatever, and you've got the labs on the ship to answer them."

"There are many qualified scientists aboard the Enterprise. It is ridiculous to dismiss everyone who can be relied upon in a hostile environment."

"Alright. Commander Spock, as your Captain, I'm ordering you to beam up as soon as communications with the Enterprise are reestablished."

And there it was. The moment had been in the making ever since Kirk disobeyed Spock's orders immediately before his exile to Delta Vega. Since then, ignoring an order had been one of the things they tacitly avoided talking about. On the table, but unmentionable. A last recourse. The possibility of a situation desperate enough to call for direct disobedience had begun to seem remote with Spock's burgeoning respect for Kirk.

"I am not comparable to Dr. McCoy," Spock protested. "My expertise in these matters would increase your chances of success exponentially. The doctor is valuable but not indispensable."

"I'm ordering you, Spock," Kirk said quietly. The crew of the Enterprise were unable to pronounce Spock's first names and as such could not substitute it for his more formal surname when the situation called for it. Somehow, Kirk managed to make the transition anyway. Spock could always tell when Kirk spoke to him with the intimacy of a friend. This was not one of those times.

"Look at me, Jim. Tell me honestly that you believe this is the best course of action."

Jim faced him, eyes locking determinedly on to his. "This is best for everyone."

Spock saw it as it happened, the flash of frustration, the hesitation. He knew emotional repression like he knew his own thoughts. Kirk was trying to hide something.

"Tell me you are not letting emotion cloud your judgment," Spock pressed.

"I'm not."

Spock sighed. "You are lying," he said.

"I stand by what I said. I'm ordering you, Bones, and everyone who isn't a suspect to return to the Enterprise before the Marin changes her mind."

"No," said Spock.

Kirk swallowed, and Spock could see his options running through his head. Demotion, court martial, exile - Kirk couldn't afford disobedience in a subordinate, and, when push came to shove, no matter the respect, or history between them, that was what Spock was. A Second. Spock couldn't ease the sting of his decision, but he could make the choice easier for Kirk.

"I resign my post," he offered. "I am aware that two weeks' notice is normally required, and that by contract I am obliged to fulfill my duties until the scheduled return to Earth, but my resignation does negate certain legal requirements on your part upon our return, such as that of a formal demotion. My trial for insurrection will likewise be simplified for the accusing party, and -"

"I refuse to accept your resignation," Kirk informed him, "and I demand to know the reasoning behind it."

"None of your crew will entrust you willingly to the Phaetans. However, as you have taken the matter out of our hands, my only recourse is to do my utmost to prevent this outcome. If you would take a friend's advice, permit both those you trust and those you do not to remain."

"If I do, will you withdraw the resignation?"

"And if we fail to find the murderer? Would you order me away then?"

"Of course," Kirk said. "Is this about the bond? Because we can just have it cut, and -"

"I stand by my resignation. Our bond has nothing to do with the issue. My oath as First Officer was to serve the Federation, the captain and the crew. The former and the latter are in good hands, if I can protect the captain. It is a logical choice, Jim."

"Not First Officer anymore," Kirk pointed out. "So stop being a self-sacrificing jerkwad."

Pots and kettles came to Spock's mind, but he felt it would be a juvenile argument to add to the discussion. "For the time being, I am simply in a better position to serve Starfleet as your friend than as your First."

Kirk rubbed at his temples with his hands, and Spock briefly considered reaching out to replace Kirk's fingers with his own, to draw out the weariness and frustration and drown it in his own.

"This isn't a victory for either of us," Kirk finally said. "It's a stalemate. We've got each other backed into impossible positions. You're the chess master; what do we do now?"

"Reset the board," Spock said. "Your metaphor is lacking and does not readily suggest solutions applicable in the real world."

"How about a compromise? I need you as my second, Spock, but I'm not going to let you stay out of misguided chivalry or whatever."

Spock leaned back in his chair, considering. There were certain concessions that could be made, but the essence of his decision was unchangeable. He would not leave without Kirk.

"Allow myself, the Ambassadors and Ensign Yjehar to remain," Spock suggested. "Whoever the perpetrator is, you will be left with three officers loyal to you. Ensign Yjehar is skilled enough to overpower both ambassadors if threatened, and you will need the protection I can offer. I will not officially resign unless we fail to uncover the murderer, at which point I predict we will have another discussion on this subject."

Kirk nodded slowly. "I'll need you to promise me that you won't ever do this again. I can have you threatening to resign every time we disagree on something. I need to be able to count on you in a crisis, and I can't do that right now."

"You have my word," Spock said solemnly.

"Good. And Bones stays, as well."

Spock raised an eyebrow.

Kirk gave him a rueful smile. "There is a human idiom that says to keep your friends close, and your enemies closer. I figure that since I can't seem to be rid of either, best thing to do is to cave gracefully."

In the end, there wasn't much grace in any of it. Spock and Kirk returned to the others, and watched the sunrise in unpleasant, anticipatory silence. After half an hour had elapsed, they woke the others, and Kirk detailed his plan. Uhura, unsurprisingly, did not take it lying down. She snapped and cajoled, backed by a baffled Jones, who couldn't understand why he was one of the two chosen to return to the Enterprise. Eventually, Kirk put his foot down, and the room fell into silence once more as they waited for the Phaetans to make their move.

Spock was expecting two dozen of Aegle's burliest, armed to the teeth. But when the curtain of energy by the door flickered and faded, it was Epia and the Marin, each holding their hands out before them, unarmed. Four guards flanked them. Otherwise the stairwell was empty.

Despite their disagreement, the crew of the Enterprise got to their feet as one, drawing into a tight cluster. Kirk managed to maneuver so that he was somehow in front, and Spock stepped up behind him, so close that he could practically feel the animosity radiating off the other man.

"Well?" said Kirk.

"Those who wish to go, come with us." The Marin gestured at the stairs.

Spock covertly looked around the room, examining escape routes, potential weapons and places to duck for cover. The Marin gave Kirk a run for the money as most unpredictable person in Spock's universe, and it made him uncomfortable. She had power but was surprised by it. She had them escorted by an entire squadron of guards one night, and the next she walked fearlessly up to them, weaponless and demanding. She was physically weak, mentally strong, and probably somewhere in between those two on the Esper scale. Putting both her and Kirk in a volatile situation was like having an equation with two unknowns.

"We will all go. We need to see them beam up safe and sound." Kirk took a small step forward, and Spock followed as if they were attached by a string. If the Marin attempted another burst of psychic static, he would be ready to shield Kirk as well as himself. He wasn't sure if his shields would work - they hadn't before, but now he'd had some time to prepare a few ideas that might help to deflect the foreign frequency - and shielding another person was new as well. Theoretically it could work. Though worse than he'd like, the odds were better than zero. He kept close enough to Kirk to lunge and initiate skin contact as the Marin conceded the demand, and the landing party was marched to the open courtyard where they'd landed.

It was as empty as the first time they saw it, the cream colored stones smooth and clean, but a faint line of red dust lined the crevice where the base of the tower met the platform. The wind had picked up, and apparently their hosts'd had other things on their mind than sweeping the city. Their guards were in close-fitting red, the same rusty color as the sand. Epia and the Marin echoed the coloring if not the practicality; their robes billowed behind them like sails. Spock calculated that a four-hundred and fifty-two percent increase in the current wind speed would be required to blow them clear off the ground. He spent a satisfied moment imagining them falling into the sky like kites with broken strings before calculating the possibility of sudden hurricanes. It was sadly unlikely. Even on Phaeton, where it was plausible, there should at least be precursory winds.

Spock caught the pause in the Marin's movement before he caught the quiver in the air. She wasn't humming in the same way his bond to Kirk wasn't actually glowing; it had nothing to do with sight or hearing, and everything to do with interpreting the universe as closely as possible with the limited resources biology supplied. Much like words, his brain's interpretation of psychic phenomena was simultaneously spot on and deeply erroneous. The katra translated the essence of what was being communicated in ways specific to the individuals receiving and transmitting. It received the message however it deemed it would best be understood, regardless of whether there was humming, or glowing, or anything else physically happening. A truth that wasn't reality.

Spock tried to keep the dichotomy clear as he wrapped his fingers around Kirk's wrist. His fingers sought out Kirk's pulse in a crude approximation of the meld position to improve their connection. The static emanating from the Marin wasn't as aggressive or powerful as last night; curiously, it was as though it lifted a burden from his shoulders he hadn't known he was carrying. The air felt clearer and lighter and the wind smelled like the sea. Spock called up his shields anyway, partially for caution, partially to see if it would work. He felt them thicken and congeal around his katra and gently pushed them outwards with the force of his will. At first, the static passed straight through. Spock didn't follow it, unwilling to delve beyond his boundaries. Instead, he focused on the message of the static. He imagined this was what it would be like to be Uhura, decoding a new language for the first time - no grammatical references, no precedents, just the empty noise and a faint thrum of _intention_.

It was benevolent, and there was a start. Benign. Clear. His eyes shut of their own accord, and he redirected more of his consciousness to the shields. Slender tendrils of gold tainted the soap-bubble sheen of their surface, and Spock felt a spike of confusion, tension, determination, _hishel_. He tried to compartmentalize, order its mind into the patterns it was supposed to occupy.

"Spock?" Kirk asked, his voice coming from a long way off.

Spock's concentration wavered for a second, he was dragged halfway back to reality by sudden spike in Kirk's pulse and suddenly he got it. It was one of those pictures that was an incomprehensible pattern until you take a step back and let your eyes slide out of focus. He was listening too hard. He gave up and started understanding. The hum was an endless litany of _openopenopenopen_. He blocked the sound with an effort and tentatively tried to slide that protection along the bond to Kirk. Kirk flinched under his touch, and for an instant, Spock was knee deep in the burning field of wheat he'd dreamed about while Kirk was in sickbay. He blinked and looked down to where his hand was clasping Kirk's arm, and the field faded back into his mind.

"_Spock_?" Kirk repeated, shock evident in his voice. "What the hell was _that_?" he mouthed at him. He was close enough that he had to tilt his head slightly to look up at the taller Vulcan, exposing his throat. Spock saw his Adam's apple bob frantically. His nostrils were flaring - which was fascinating, he'd never known Kirk could do that.

"I attempted to increase the natural protection you mind affords itself from -" he paused. The humming was gone, and the Phaetans and the humans were watching them curiously.

Kirk noticed the audience at the same time Spock did and twisted his arm from the other man's grasp.

"Don't _ever_ do that again," he hissed.

The abject terror in Kirk's voice was a bit like a slap, Spock noticed detachedly. The captain was shaking. Not much, for a human, just - imperceptibly.

"You may beam who you wish," the Marin said. "As long as some remain. Yourself, also."

Kirk snapped around towards her, as if he'd only just remembered she was there. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah. Ok. Our communicators work?"

The Marin nodded solemnly and handed Kirk one of the confiscated comms. Everyone tensed up as they got within punching distance of each other.

"Scotty?" Kirk held the comm to up to speak. "Scotty, do you read?"

"Keptin!" There was a frantic clattering at the other end of the connection. It sounded vaguely like something heavy had launched itself across the bridge in a desperate attempt to get to the con. Chekov continued unaffected. "Keptin, are you safe? Ve shall be beaming you up-"

"No. No, wait." Kirk cut him off hurriedly. "I need you to beam Lieutenant Uhura and Ensign Jones up as soon as you've established it's safe. Just those two, got it? Where's Scotty?"

"Mister Scott is finishing adjustments to ze vepons systems in engineering. He is not being happy vhen he cannot comm you, sir."

"Is everything all right down there?" Sulu should not have been across the bridge, at the helm, not at the communications panel. Even though it seemed like no-one was occupying the positions they were supposed to, at least it explained the earlier clatter.

"Nothing we can't handle. Uhura'll catch you up." Kirk kept his tone light, despite the obvious tension. "Are you ready to beam?"

The sound of rapid fire tapping, and then Chekov; "One moment, please, I am cross-referencing ze -" A brief pause. "-ze static is gone, sir, we are beaming."

Uhura and Jones lit up, sparks of light erupting from their skin to orbit their bodies. No matter how many times he saw it, it always struck Spock as a thing of beauty - they looked angelical, poised to take flight. An illogical line of thought he only allowed to flourish because it somehow made the last memory of his mother, caught in a white blaze of her own, easier to bear.

"Ensign," Kirk snapped. "Beam up Mr. Spock and doctor McCoy. Now."

Spock latched on to Kirk's arm, as though he could hold himself down with sheer force of will.

"That was not our agreement," he snarled.

Kirk placed his own hand on Spock's shoulder, giving him a quick squeeze. "Sorry, Spock."

Spock began to feel the telltale lightness that always accompanied dematerialization, and he snatched the comm out of Kirk's hand.

"Ensign! Belay the order."

"Commander Spock?" Chekov asked.

"Do it now!"

Kirk lunged for the comm, and Spock narrowly avoided his arm. It was hard to judge distances, he was glowing, and it was difficult to see past the radiance of his own skin. Even though Chekov had paused the transfer, his body mass still seemed off. He danced backwards, out of Kirk's reach, and the captain followed. McCoy appeared between them.

"Damn fool children," he hissed. "Whiz kid. Chekov. Don't even think about beamin' us anywhere."

"Aye, sir," came the faint reply.

Kirk stretched out his hand. "Spock. Give me the comm. Now."

The Phaetans looked to the Marin for direction, confusion painted on their faces at the direction the conversation had taken, but she held up a hand and motioned for them to stay still.

"Don't do it," McCoy ordered. "Jim." He stepped up to his friend, close enough that he could whisper. "What's your problem? You don't sleep well, you barely eat - you started jabbering in goddamn Vulcan while I was working on that leg of yours. I know you're afraid of... losing, but we're your friends, and we want to help."

The tension slowly bled from Kirk's posture, and McCoy placed a steadying hand on his back. The captain looked as though his bones had left him along with the will to fight, leaving completely devoid of structural integrity. Watching them, Spock swallowed down the bitter taste at the back of his mouth - how could McCoy do that? A simple touch, a few words, and suddenly Jim was leaning heavily on him, trusting him. He was overcome with the urge to pull Kirk aside, to tell him, 'I care about you, too. Please don't force me away.' and to pull Kirk into a hug like Jim had done for him, being his backbone while Jim melted against him -

He couldn't, of course, but he could do something almost as good, if Jim would let him. A small part the warmth he felt for him, the friendship, and loyalty, and devotion, the things he shouldn't know, but did, all his human flaws, he gathered in his thoughts. It was an unholy mess, he thought. His mind was a complete jumble, glowing threads of emotion in all the colors of the rainbow tying everything up in knots. He tried forcing them down the length of his bond, but they were uncooperative, twisting out of his grasp and lashing at him. _This is silly_, part of him insisted. _Just deepen the bond a fraction. Then Kirk will understand you like you understand him - without any need for encryption, or explanation. Broadcast your emotion like you would in a direct mindmeld. Then he won't need to have it fed to him in a manner his human brain can process. He'll simply know._ Spock repressed the thought and began gathering emotions once more. A faint tremor worked its way up the ones he was gripping, and they shook loose of his control. Then came another tremor, and another, increasing in speed and intensity. He realized that the Marin was humming again - Kirk's window of opportunity had been shut. Those still standing on the planet's surface were stuck there until the mission ended, whatever end that might be.

The Marin had raised her hands to chest level, and her eyes were vacant. Chekov's voice splintered and was drowned out by feedback. Uhura and Jones were empty patches in the Enterprise contingent, and they instinctively closed ranks to compensate. Despite the loaded atmosphere, Spock could feel the tension bleed out of him. There was a strange sense of comfort in knowing that the board was set, that there were rules that had to be abided by, no matter how dangerous the game. Kirk had no choice but to play it out with the hand he'd been given. McCoy's hand was still on the captain's waist, and Spock placed his own behind his back, shoulder against the doctor's. If they were trapped by the machinations of Starfleet and the Marin, at least they were trapped together.

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><p><em>Constructive criticism is welcome. On an aside note, my AN totally backfired. Now I want to go write a Zombies!AU._


	8. The Canyon

_**A/N: **Star Trek belongs to Paramount Viacom. Thanks to everyone who has commented, faved or alerted; this is roughly the halfway mark of the story, and it's nice to know that other people are taking the trip with me. Here's to a fun second half! :) Extra-ultra-special thanks to Dizdayn, who got me this far. _

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><p><strong>VIII. The Canyon<strong>

Across the courtyard, the Phaetans were fidgeting and talking nervously amongst themselves. Spock understood; they'd just witnessed two people disappear into thin air, and though they'd probably heard of the concept of beaming, explanations seldom did reality justice. Spock looked up briefly to where the Enterprise hovered beyond the atmosphere out of sight and repressed a brief pang of homesickness.

The Marin was unfazed. She straightened the hems of her sleeves neatly then walked up to Kirk. Spock inched closer to his captain.

"I wish to speak, Jamestea Kirk," the Marin said. She offered Kirk her arm, and Ensign Yjehar lurched forward at the sudden movement. Spock barely managed to clamp a hand around her elbow in time to stop her. The Marin led Kirk away to the far end of the platform where they were easily visible to both groups but out of ear shot, and Spock followed their movements with narrowed eyes.

"She might've had a weapon," Yjehar hissed under her breath, wrenching her arm away. "I was just doing my job."

"You were about to attack a foreign dignitary without provocation. I suggest you calm yourself."

"Yes, Sir." She scowled at the Marin but, nonetheless, settled into a passable parade rest.

"What exactly was that?" Morrowith asked. He and Sorel had kept to the back during the brief scuffle over who should beam up. "Your little altercation - you disobeyed a direct order, Commander. Do you mind explaining?"

"Now is not an opportune time," Spock said stiffly. Yes, he'd disobeyed an order from Kirk, but he felt little inclination to discuss it with either Morrowith or Sorel. The deal he and Kirk struck, allowing him to stay planetside, was off the record, and the subsequent breach of it had been personal as well. Spock found it odd; Kirk was not the sort of person to make a promise intending to break it minutes later.

McCoy frowned and crossed his arms across his chest. He looked back and forth between Kirk and Spock, his eyes narrowing progressively.

"So," he finally said. "What's Starfleet recommend doing in a fix like this?"

"Both parties have withdrawn and rethought their strategies and terms," Sorel said. "Traditionally, we should bring a new, advantageous offer to the table to assure them of our intentions, as well as offering them a gift."

Everyone glanced involuntarily over to where Kirk and the Marin were speaking; Kirk's hand was still on the Marin's elbow.

"It is customary to give something with cultural connotations, such as art, or literature." Sorel clarified.

"That's nice," McCoy said. "I don't think that's gonna cut it."

Privately, Spock agreed, but he was too preoccupied searching Kirk's posture for signs of distress to participate in the discussion.

"Depends on what they want out of the negotiation," Morrowith said. "Maybe they called us out of courtesy, and they're rethinking the decision. Maybe they want to play friends so they can stab us in the back later when the Klingons offer them a better deal. In that case, they'll accept the gifts just fine."

"We give them presents, hope for the best, and then hightail it out of here?" McCoy snorted. "Thank God I'm a doctor, not a diplomat. At least I know when my patients are actually gettin' better and not just faking 'till I hand 'em over for one of my nurses to look at."

"We should have gotten the Cap'n out of here. No offense, Sirs," Yjehar said. "It's a combat situation, alright, just a really sneaky one. I don't like it." She was back to fiddling with her sleeve and smoothing back her hair nervously. "We should take the old lady hostage and negotiate from the Enterprise."

"Starfleet would hardly approve. Is this how negotiations are usually conducted on your ship?" Sorel asked.

McCoy snorted disdainfully. "Yeah. We blackmail, maim and murder our way 'cross the universe. That's why we have the one of highest mission success rates in the fleet." He turned around and craned his neck for a better look at the Marin, effectively ending that line of conversation. "What do you reckon they're talking about?" he asked Spock.

"Guessing is illogical."

"Fine. Formulate me a hypothesis. For chrissakes, you know what I mean - look, she's smiling, d'you hypothesize that's a good thing?"

Kirk nodded and bent his head in a brief courtesy, and he and the Marin slowly returned to the others. He gathered the Enterprise crew around him in a tight circle.

"So?" McCoy asked. "What'd she say?"

"Lots of misapplied idioms," Kirk said. "And I'm leaving for a day or two."

The reaction was instantaneous and violent. McCoy's hand shot out as if he expected Kirk to turn tail and bolt that very instant, and Yjehar palmed something in a brief flash of silver. Spock raised both eyebrows.

Kirk raised a hand. "No, it's alright. Hear me out. You'll be given free communication with the Enterprise during my absence, and free run of the guest quarters. The Marin says you can barricade yourselves in for all she cares, but if there is anything you'd like to see in the city, she'll make sure you get an escort."

McCoy's body language was all but screaming the hell you're leaving. "And where do you think you're going?" he asked.

"I'm going to see the Center of the World."

"The planet is round. How do they define the center?" Morrowith asked.

"Then they are deceiving you," Spock informed him. "The Center is not the geographical core, but the historical and spiritual center of their culture. Lieutenant Uhura was unable to discover sufficient information on such a locale to determine its exact nature, but you may safely assume that you would not be welcomed in such a place."

"They're taking you on a snipe hunt, so they can kill you and blame it on heatstroke," McCoy clarified.

"Bones. We're completely at their mercy already."

"We will not be able to protect you if we are separated from you," said Sorel. "I am concerned. Did you sense any disturbances of a physical or mental nature while the Marin made her offer?"

"What? No." Kirk frowned. "You think she pulled some sort of Jedi voodoo on me?"

"If you'd allow me?" Sorel shook the sleeves of his tunic from his hands and held them out before him, fingers splayed in an approximation of Kirk's meld points. "It would be a surface meld only, to examine for signs of disturbance."

Kirk's eyes widened, and he looked at Spock pleadingly. Spock assumed he wasn't prepared to broach the subject of their technical engagement in front of a crew member, two Starfleet dignitaries, a host of foreign officials and his best friend.

"Um," he said, and Spock could practically see the wheels turning. "Honestly, I'd prefer if Spock did it. He's more familiar with my particular brand of insane." Kirk gave the ambassador his most disarming smile. "I hope that'd be alright with you." Kirk shrugged; his attitude implied: 'I'm just an illogical human. Humor me, please.'

Sorel kept a carefully blank face.

"Commander Spock, while not unskilled, is not trained to the proficiency required to pick up such subtle signs of mental manipulation. His familiarity with your methods of thinking will not be helpful to him."

There was a moment of silence, and Spock thought that Kirk got it. Maybe not on the same level Sorel did - without the gift of telepathy, he couldn't possibly comprehend the absolute confusion of trying to keep two separate sets of feelings at bay to pick up on the faint remains of a third party's thoughts that might or might not be there - but Kirk was definitely aware that Sorel knew about the bond. Maybe he'd finally figured out that the bond was't just some magic wall that prevented Spock from tipping over into depression as well. There were consequences - Spock couldn't just go foraying into Kirk's mind and hope for the best.

With a slight twinge of guilt, Spock remembered his accidental projection of the cornfield when he'd tried to shield Kirk's thoughts and the violent spike of fear it had provoked in Kirk. Spock would understand perfectly if he didn't want anyone in his head; he would have no control over the experience.

Despite this, Kirk guided Sorel's hands to his temples by grabbing his forearms. He was staring determinately at a point over Sorel's shoulder.

"Only a surface meld, right?" he said.

"Indeed." Sorel increased the pressure on Kirk's skin, and the captain looked as though he might be sick. "My mind to your mind, my thoughts to your thoughts -"

It only took a second, but Spock's internal clock counted out the moment in terms of eons. If a surface meld was this terrifying to Kirk, how would he react to the deep-searching, uprooting experience of having a bond cut?

Spock didn't sigh with relief when Sorel broke away from Kirk and pronounced him "uncontaminated by malignant influences", but it was a close call, and, if he had to be honest, it was probably only the pensive slant to Sorel's eyebrows and the concerned glance he directed Spock's way that kept it back.

"Thanks," Kirk said quietly, relieved.

"You're still not going," Bones informed him. "I don't care whether it's your stupid idea or the Marin's, but you're painting a damn bull's eye on your chest."

"I know," Kirk said. "That's why I'm bringing Spock."

* * *

><p>Bones refused to drop the subject as they walked along behind the Marin and Spock left Kirk to handle him with no small amount of relief. Kirk had already lost one major challenge to his authority that day, and he wasn't about to lose another. In any case, his reasoning seemed fairly logical - negotiations were all but nonexistent, and gestures of faith on both sides would be required to restart them. The fact that Kirk realized the benefits of bringing protection reassured Spock that Kirk wasn't being manipulated. If Kirk was planning some extravagant, suicidal mission with the endgame of keeping his crew safe, he wouldn't bring Spock along. They'd been in enough situations like that for Kirk to know that Spock would as soon let Kirk endanger himself needlessly as chop off his own legs.<p>

Still, Bones wasn't about to concede the point, and eventually Kirk simply grabbed his shoulder, forcing him to a halt.

"Look," he said. "Spock is physically stronger than any of us, and he's good with the psychic tracker defense system. If you think you can do better at getting us back alive than him, I'll be happy to bring you instead."

Bones opened his mouth, glared and shut it again. Then he stalked off, falling into step at the back of the group with Spock.

"If Jim gets hurt, I'm coming after you with a shotgun," he said without preamble.

_If Jim gets hurt, I'll procure a shotgun for you myself,_ Spock thought.

"I know you've got some sort of mental friendship bracelet going on, but I'm the one who picked up Jim after his benders at the Academy. I'm the one he talks to when he's in trouble. I have to patch him up whenever you two go on one of your insane missions. And I'm telling you, if Jim gets hurt on your watch, I will hunt you down, flay you, and use your skin for a doormat."

Spock nodded. He absolutely understood. If their situations were reversed, he would feel the same way, although he'd probably couch his threats in less bloodthirsty rhetoric.

"And, um -" McCoy seemed almost hesitant to mention it. "I'm worried. About Jim. Just stay out of his mind, alright? Kid's got enough to think about as it is."

"I quite agree. He seems... distracted."

McCoy shot him a suspicious look.

Spock sighed. "I secured an arrangement with him to ensure he would not attempt to return us to the Enterprise while we might be of use to him here. He was adamant that we beam up. I am uncertain of the reasoning behind his vehemency on this matter."

"The arrangement didn't exactly work out, huh?" McCoy shook his head. "He's worried about us. 'Specially you, I reckon; you need patching up almost as often as he does. Niamh was tough on him. He blames himself for the security officers who died, you know."

"Yes, however -" Spock wasn't quite sure how to verbalize the faint unease humming though his katra. Kirk worried about his crew to the point of illogic, yes, but he wouldn't let it jeopardize the mission, and he wouldn't go back on his word. Nothing had happened between the tower and the platform that could have changed his mind. Then suddenly, there was the field again; red to Spock's inner eye and tainted with an all-consuming sense of fear, loss and loneliness. He'd seen it when his mind brushed Kirk's, and it had been coupled with the slick, oily taint of pollution. Now it burned clearer, closer to the color of the sands of Vulcan.

Somehow, his attempt to protect Kirk had pushed the captain into breaking his promise. He'd touched something in Kirk's mind best left alone, but, for the life of him, he couldn't figure out why Kirk had reacted so strongly to Spock's nightmare image, why it had made him decide that Spock and McCoy couldn't remain on the planet.

"Do try not to get yourself into trouble in our absence," Spock finally said. "For reasons unfathomable to me, the captain seems quite attached to you. I can imagine he would be distracted should anything happen to you. However, if you would keep an eye on the behavioral patterns of the others in our absence, I would be much obliged."

"It's gonna be a goddamn vacation without you two around," McCoy muttered, which wasn't an outright denial to either of Spock's requests. "I'll just babysit the hostile natives and an insane murderer while you're off adventuring, then." When the time came for them to split up, the doctor hugged the captain with an easy fondness.

Kirk unknowingly echoed Spock. "Take care of yourself," he said. "Barricade the door or something. I don't think the Phaetans mean any harm, but just in case. I need you there to bitch about climbing staircases when we get back."

McCoy nodded seriously then turned to leave with the others. He hesitated a bit before clapping Spock on the back.

* * *

><p>Kirk and Spock were taken to a high platform overlooking most of the city by Epia. She dismissed the rest of the guards as well as Kirk's attempts at conversation. She obviously wasn't inclined to make any goodwill gestures just yet.<p>

The platform they were led to was similar to the larger one they'd just vacated, except for half a dozen sleek silver oblongs lining the edge of the courtyard. Perched on the tail end of the closest, humming nonchalantly, sat Daelus. Epia waved them off in his direction then walked away without a word. Perhaps there was more to the situation than a few murders, Spock thought.

Daelus didn't offer any clues as to what that 'other' might be. He'd plastered a welcoming smile across his face and wandered over to them with the deliberation of a man walking through a minefield. Every movement was fluid, economical and precise. Spock had a larger pool of reference than the last time he'd seen the Phaetan, and he revised his mental opinion of Daelus to include the words 'graceful' and 'dangerous'.

"I have volunteered to fly you to the Center," he said. The sentence had none of the bizarre syntax which Spock presumed had come from the Phaetans' crash course in Standard based on whatever they'd found on the nets, and it sounded practiced.

"Hi," Kirk said brightly, and offered his hand. "We've volunteered to go."

"My name is Daelus, and I will be your pilot today."

"That's nice."

"Refreshments will not be served en-route, although our waitresses can provide you with snacks for a fee."

Kirk looked like the hardest part of diplomacy was not laughing at the wrong bits of it. "Mr. Daelus," he said gently. "Can you tell me what a waitress is?"

"A particle part of the ritual of flying?" the Phaetan hazarded. "I do not wish to offend your religion. I am a very good Touch, though. Prayer will be gluing down something that is already bolted fast. You are secure."

"I'm quite sure we are," said Kirk. "I have absolute confidence in your abilities."

"I'm glad." There was an awkward pause as everyone tried to think of something to say that couldn't possibly be construed as offensive.

"So," Kirk said, looking around. "What are we flying in?"

Daelus lit up in a smile that was a few shades more genuine that his previous one. "Follow me," he ordered, and bounded over to the nearest of the oblongs. He ran a hand along the side, of it, and pulled at a previously unnoticed ridge along the side of the object. It slid out easily, exposing a few centimeters of a fine membrane.

"This is my spore," he explained.

Spock moved closer, drawn by the odd materials. "May I?" he asked.

"Carefully."

That was all the permission Spock needed. It was fascinating, really. The hull of the aircraft had a design unlike any he'd ever seen before. It was slender, tapering into a needle point both at the front and back end. However, while the rear and the very tip of the front were both constructed from some silvery metal, the rest of the hull was made entirely of a dark, glasslike material. On either side of the nose, trailing backwards along the craft, a ridge folded out to expose a jointed wing. He tapped one with his index finger, trying to judge the tensile strength. It did not as much as budge. The wings reminded him of the anatomy of bats - the crossbars reinforced the cloth, dispersing the pressure across the wings so that the cloth could carry the weight of the whole construction while in flight.

Daelus, sensing his interest, stretched the wing a little further. He used an odd, fluid motion, and Spock made a note to himself that they apparently only responded to certain kinds of pressure.

"The wings are knottified from the spores of our number one crop. They fly amongst the earthcuts on the wind. They have tiny wings." Daelus linked his thumbs together and spread out his hands to illustrate. "We photocopied the thought."

Spock examined the craft carefully with an eye on aerodynamics while Kirk continued to pepper Daelus with questions. They seemed to be engaged in some kind of enthusiasm-spiral. Daelus would make some explanatory remark; Kirk would all but cheer him on, and all the while, their smiles would grow progressively wider. Spock's stomach did an unpleasant flip. There was no way it could possibly end well. The captain wore that face when he said things like 'Warp speed, Mr. Sulu, let's see how fast she can go through this asteroid belt', and 'It's only a routine scouting mission, what could possibly go wrong?'

"She's beautiful," Kirk eventually announced. "How do you fly her?"

"Come see." Daelus hooked his long fingers into the ridge left by an extended wing, and a section of the glass slid aside. Inside the spore was quite cramped; most of the space was taken up by three seats, all equipped with a harness and little else. Spock could make out a dark screen in front of each seat with tiny clips that looked like they were designed to hold humanoid fingers in place. Daelus slid effortlessly into the nose seat and clipped his harness across his chest.

Kirk didn't wait for permission to clamber in after him and claim the middle seat for his own. He strapped himself in clumsily, ignoring the fact that the strap was wrong across his right shoulder. Spock winced. It would spring open at the slightest strain. Both Daelus and Kirk looked at him expectantly.

"Captain," he said. "I have not yet finished my report on the hypothetical effects of the increased windspeed outside the protective dome on the structural integrity of the Spore-craft."

"Protective dome?" Kirk looked up at the distant purple clouds and at the ring of sand around the base of the city. "Oh. Look, Spock, I'm not going to force you into anything, but I think it's probably safe. What does your preliminary research say?"

"It seems... promising," Spock admitted.

Daelus looked from one to the other.

"Sir Spock? Would you friendliest help Touch Kirk attach himself correctly?"

"I can do it," Kirk protested. He examined the buckle carefully, trying to make it answer to his insensitive human fingers.

"In the interest of expediency, allow me," Spock said. Tentatively, he unfastened the loose buckle in Kirk's harness. Reaching over the edge of the cockpit gave him a poor angle to work with, and he climbed up behind the middle seat and reached an arm around Kirk to tighten the strap. Kirk's hair smelled like salt and dust.

"All excellent?" asked Daelus. Spock sat down in his own seat and buckled his harness.

"Ready, captain," Kirk answered. "Take her up. And please explain what you're doing."

"I'm flying." Daelus said simply. He eased his fingers into the clips on the screen and ensured that his palms were flat against it. Something in the belly of the craft whirred to life, and as the cockpit sealed itself off, the black glass slowly turned a dark transparent. Spock swallowed. While he could clearly make out the pane below him, he could also make out the stones of the courtyard half a meter below that.

"Of which materials is this aircraft constructed?" he asked.

"Spore," Daelus corrected. "It's crystal from the earthcuts. Metal from the belly of the planet. Ingenuity from our minds."

"Duct tape?" Kirk asked somberly.

"I beg your excuse me?"

"Apparently not. See, Spock, it's fine. They know how to build these things."

"Look?" Daelus tapped the unfastened tips of his fingers against the screen in front of him. "Touch, and you can change your directional navigation and the sunlight blackers. Tilt the plate in the diagonal -" He moved his hands a little to the left, the fastenings sliding with them, and the entire Spore veered a meter to the left, barely avoiding collision with a pillar. The craft had settled down to a low hum, and besides the fact that it had just suddenly moved, it gave no impression of being in any way ready to fly.

"That's awesome," Kirk said. "Can you imagine the maneuvers we could do if we got Scotty to build something like this into the Enterprise? No limitations, no time wasted powering up -" He waved his hands, illustrating all the insane loops they could perform.

Spock felt obliged to cut in. "It wouldn't work, Captain. The power needed for space travel is fifteen million to the sixteenth power greater than that needed for this vessel. Also, I presume that the magnetic field you use to power these is nonexistent outside this planet's gravitational field?"

Daelus hummed for a moment, tapping his foot as though he was trying to get the rhythm of the question. "Yes," he finally said. "No use in space. None. Only here. You analyzified the environment?"

Spock quirked an eyebrow. "It seemed logical. In every building I observed defying the gravity of the planet, the main component was some sort of metal. An alloy, I presume, designed to maximize the effects of magnetism. Also, our instruments began behaving oddly when we neared your city. I infer this is some side effect of the way you manipulate the planet's magnetic field, and your crystal can be used as an insulating agent to protect your technology?"

"Now you're just guessing, Spock. It's illogical." Kirk said. There was a quiet warning in his tone. Daelus looked distinctly uncomfortable with the line of questioning, and Spock peered out the window with feigned disinterest. He'd gotten carried away with curiosity and forgotten that exposing just how much they were able to deduct about Aegle's defenses just from observing probably wasn't effective at defusing hostile negotiations. It was a stupid mistake, and Spock bit his tongue over it.

Daelus coughed, a little awkwardly. "Usually, the hindmost Touch codes the directional navigation. Today, I will be three Touches. You will see, and like, right?"

"Right," said Kirk.

Spock's stomach promptly flattened his spleen as they shot a hundred feet into the air in a matter of seconds.

He didn't have much time to reorient himself - a small mercy, really. It was as if gravity had been turned on its head. He looked up instinctively in the direction they were falling and saw only the odd violet of the sky. He could drop forever. His breath stuck in his chest, and his hands found a vice-like grip on the edge of Kirk's seat. Then they were falling again, down, past arches and spires, in unnatural curves and lines toward the edge of the city. Spock tried to align himself with the movements, to accept them as part of a natural pattern, but it was all too much. He had three-hundred and ten degrees visibility, Kirk's chair being a narrow slice of stationary object as the rest of the world spun madly by.

It was a bit like dying.

Once, he'd had a close call on an away mission, taken a halberd to the midriff, and bled out with all the ferocity of someone who is too far gone to control the frantic beating of their heart. He'd felt his body from a distance. He was trapped in his own head, and he didn't care.

Spock didn't bother with reinforcing his shields against the terror. He knew it was a lost battle. With the last of rational thought, he encased his consciousness in a small bubble of lethargy. He disconnected himself as well as he could. His body slumped inelegantly in its chair, his eyes slamming shut. He was floating away on a tide of indifference. He could see the tiny candles in his head, orbiting around him, before it all went black.

* * *

><p><em>Spock?<em>

"Spock?"

_Are you there? Please, please wake up._

"Are you there?"

His thoughts had an echo. He'd gone insane.

"Spock? You're drooling on your shirt."

He was vibrating. Very slowly. The frequency of the movement was irregular, and it didn't originate in his muscles. He amended the thought; he was being shaken. He closed his mouth.

"It's ok, Spock. Daelus has blacked out the bottom and sides of the Spore. You can't see anything."

The voice was familiar, and he wanted to trust it. Spock didn't open his eyes but brought a hand up to wipe the moisture from the corner of his mouth. Jim removed his hand from where it had rested on Spock's shoulder. The echo went away as Spock's shields reestablished themselves. He felt marginally better as the adrenaline wore off.

"Spock," Kirk's voice continued. "I'm so, so sorry. I didn't think - I mean, you never seem to have problems on the bridge - ah, _fuck_ me, why didn't I think?"

Spock cracked open an eyelid, testing. His feet were resting on solid, black crystal. He looked up. Kirk was twisted at an unnatural angle in his seat, equal parts of concern and guilt written clearly across his face.

"There is no gravity in space," Spock said in a very small, very precise voice.

"You don't have to talk," Kirk said quickly. "Not until you feel better. I shouldn't have pushed you into coming. Just - relax, alright? Try and sleep. Daelus says we'll be there soon -"

"You are nearly incoherent," Spock pointed out.

"You scared the hell out of me."

Daelus didn't turn around when he spoke up, keeping his eyes on the barren landscape visible through the nose of the Spore. He had called up a virtual colored thread on the windshield to mark out a path across the desert, as well as information about the wind speed, and something that looked like primitive radar. Spock wanted to think about it, but he didn't feel completely up to the task yet.

"I apologize sincerely from the most profound bottoms of my internal organs," Daelus said. "I wished to show you only that I am a well-done Touch, and that I fly like a buzzard-bird. Touch Kirk explained to me that you had a bad stormy crash."

"No offense is taken when none is meant."

"I am rapturous."

Spock rested his head against the chair, just for a moment until he got his bearings back.

"Hey," Kirk said. "Don't worry. Look at me. I've got you."

Spock tried to convey how illogical and ridiculous that concept was with his eyebrows. He didn't want to open his mouth.

Kirk reached out for Spock's hand then stopped himself. "Can I touch you?" he asked. "You're not doing some shielding-something?"

He was, actually. Shielding was important, but the look on Kirk's face reminded him of the way his mother had looked at him when he came home from school with a cloud of indignities hovering fresh in his memory. She'd hugged him and smelled like roses, and sometimes, he missed her so _much_ - Spock nodded, and Kirk carefully took his hand, twining their fingers together.

The sensation should have sent Spock's nerves into a flurry of sparks, a sudden awareness of everything _Jim_. Instead, there was just the slow comfort of not being alone. It was like being wrapped in a warm duvet or a brotherly embrace.

"I've got you," Kirk repeated.

Spock hovered on the edge of consciousness, not daring to give in to complete insentience.

Kirk and Daelus kept up a low conversation in the background. Daelus was telling Kirk about how the spores were used mainly to ferry labour to and from the canyons where food was grown. Bigger spores were constructed to carry food and water, but not too big, because they wouldn't be able to fly. He was very emphatic on that point, and when he began talking about how spores were useless for combat, Spock perked an ear. Apparently, the Marin had prepped Daelus very carefully on some subjects. That was worth remembering. In comparison to an intergalactic starship, the spores usefulness was certainly limited, but if the hovering technology could be modified to work in a less specialized magnetic field, it would revolutionize on-world transport and yes, warfare. As far as Spock could tell, spores were all but silent with unprecedented maneuverability and acceleration. Still, that would be the least of the spore's uses; coupled with a cloaking device, it would be ideal for the exploration of new planets without endangering the crew.

Twenty-three minutes later, Kirk gave Spock's hand a gentle squeeze.

"You're going to want to see this," he said.

The beginning hollow of a canyon broke the uniform red of the desert floor ahead, and Daelus piloted the spore downwards to trace the contours of the canyon in a cautious glide. They fell further and further below ground level, and the stone around them went from poppyflower to deep violet as they passed the first sedimentary level. Caves and hollows began appearing as shaded pockmarks in the canyon walls then the shade crept from them to cover everything. Down there, the suns never reached. Spock observed the cracks in the rock intently and longed for his tricorder. There appeared to be several different types of fungi: an orange mold that bore a vague resemblance to downy pillows, sea green mushrooms pointed like arrow tips. There was no trace of animal life. He supposed they would have to go deeper for that - down where geothermic heat would make the night frosts less severe and where the days were less blisteringly hot. Spock had just begun to speculate how deep a canyon the geographical and physical characteristics of the environment would permit when the line on the spore's windshield swerved to the left. Daelus brought the craft down on a narrow ledge, close enough the Spock could reach out and touch the sheer face of the canyon wall.

Daelus unclipped his fingers and body and brushed his hand along the edge of the windshield. The cockpit slid silently open, and he vaulted on to the ledge in a practiced movement. Kirk followed after a moment, looking around curiously. Spock took a little longer, shaking himself thoroughly out of his daze before attempting the clip of his harness. The air was colder, distinctly chilly for a Vulcan, and it helped him clear his head. From the elevated position in the spore's cockpit, he could see further down the chasm, down to where the violet rock gave way to jet black and past that, a faint glimmer of silver. A river, he presumed, the one that had dug this enormous trench. He shuddered and wrenched his eyes away.

Daelus opened a hatch on the belly of the spore and began rummaging around inside it. The metal flap of the hidden compartment obstructed Spock's view of what Daelus was doing, and he joined Kirk on the ledge for a clear line of sight. One hand he kept on the cliffside to anchor him. Kirk was brushing up against his shoulder, pushing him against the rock by virtue of Spock's reluctance to let anyone breach his bubble of personal space. If he wanted to get closer to the cliff, he'd have to press up against the captain. It was a bit of a relief - it helped calm that stupid, illogical part of him that couldn't help but calculate the sheer physical _possibility_ of him stumbling into thin air. Somehow, Kirk stymied the math. It wasn't new, but it marked what was probably the first time Spock had ever been glad of Kirk's gift for universal defiance.

Daelus was pulling out an odd collection of items from the small storage compartment underneath the spore. There were three cloth packs, presumably rucksacks of some kind, if the straps affixed to them were anything to go by. Into them went pouches that smelled like must and dried vegetable, half a dozen flasks of water judging by the sloshing sounds they emitted, and several lengths of rope. There were several small chests of various sizes, and Daelus laid them all out, considering.

"Can we help with anything?" Kirk asked.

Daelus made a cutting movement with his left hand. "It is all well-done," he said. "You cannot prepare for the unknown."

"Bullshit," Kirk muttered to Spock. "You bring a really big stick."

Spock, who was trying to recalibrate his internal clock based on the movement of the suns - he might have lost a second or two when he blacked out - watched a shadow flit across the sky. "Mr. Daelus," he said. "The biological information our scans of the planet provided was incomplete. Is any part of the local flora or fauna dangerous to humanoids?"

The Phaetan didn't look up from his work. "It depends on how you squint. Or if you touch them."

Spock crouched down beside him. Daelus had set three flasks in woven harnesses of some kind apart from the rest of the equipment. They were half filled with a clear liquid. At first Spock thought it was water, but the way it clung to the sides of the flasks spoke of greater viscosity.

"What is the ultimate goal of this expedition?" he asked.

That earned him a smile. "Friendliness." Daelus said at the same time Kirk said: "Already asked that."

"And the means to achieving that goal?"

Daelus handed him a pack. It didn't take long to figure out which straps went where, and soon, the pack was secured to Spock's side, nestled next to his elbow. Despite the weight, it was surprisingly comfortable.

"You give me your lives to hold. For fair return, I give you what you find most spiffing in the world," Daelus said.

"I'd ask for three wishes, complete amnesty, a diplomatic treaty and a partridge in a pear tree, but that seems greedy," Kirk said.

Daelus strapped on his own pack and handed Kirk his. "Secrets," he informed them. "Your species like secrets. I'll tell you stories when we're down."

Spock and Kirk traded a glance. Down? He didn't expect them to - surely, climbing couldn't be - they had the spore, why would they have to climb?

As in answer to the unasked question, Daelus gently pushed them aside. He stood before the cliff, tapping his long fingers against the rock. He caressed a fault line in the stone, tracing the spidery vein to where it disappeared behind a low outcropping. Abruptly, he yanked, and the outcropping came free of its surroundings. Daelus took a few steps backwards, his balance upset by the sudden weight, before he managed to shift the boulder to the side. The entrance to a tunnel gaped, exposed. _A wormhole,_ Spock thought. _Only this time, ejecting the warp cores won't solve anything_.

Daelus picked up the mystery flasks one by one, and added water to it from his drinking bottle. A phosphorescent blue light spread throughout the liquid. He passed the lanterns around, and Spock took his cautiously.

Kirk was looking at the sky like someone gorging himself on water before heading into the desert.

"It is beautiful," Spock said quietly.

"Mmm. The layers of the rock remind me of those things Uhura likes..." Kirk trailed off then snapped his fingers. "Cardassian Sunrises. One of those. The layers of the drink blur a little where they overlap." He crooked his head and continued in a non sequiteur: "I lived in a cave, once, for a few weeks."

Daelus was watching them patiently, and at the lull in conversation, he beckoned them. "Follow along. Prolonging is an ill-done thing."

Spock inclined his head at the cave, indicating Kirk should follow Daelus. He wanted to make up the rear. His hearing was excellent, and should something occur, he could give advance warning. _I lived in a cave, once_. Ordinarily, he'd ask: 'are caves often a part of the human ritual of"camping"?' or 'your manners, when we were first acquainted, did suggest something of the sort; I _had_ wondered'. But for some reason, all he could think to say was:

"What was it like?"

"Living underground?" Kirk looked at him over his shoulder before disappearing into the dark. "Speaking of Cardassian Sunrises, it's a bit like getting drunk, actually. You bang into a lot of stuff, and your coordination sucks. It's hard to think straight. Only, not in the fun way." Kirk's voice echoed slightly from the tunnel. "At least you don't get a hangover."

Which didn't really answer the question at all.

Spock breathed deep, and followed his captain.

* * *

><p><em>As always, constructive criticism is much appreciated. :)<em>


	9. The Center

_**A/N: **Star Trek belongs to Paramount Viacom. Lonely Planet belongs to BBC Worldwide. Fact-checking and helpful sticky-notes belong to the ever-kind Dizdayn. _

* * *

><p><strong>IX. The Center<strong>

It took Spock the better part of five minutes to alter which senses his brain primarily relied upon for navigation. He had decent eyesight, more adaptable than the average Vulcan vision due to his human genes, but it was still far better suited to bright desert sunlight than the dark tunnels and caves beneath the sands. The glow of the phosphorescent lamps gave the narrow passage a two-dimensional cast, and Spock cracked his forehead against the low, uneven roof before he adjusted his walk to compensate. He tried to lean more heavily on touch, feeling his way with his feet, and on hearing. The echoes had a distinctive pattern, and their footfalls resonated and were reflected by the rock in a unique way for every step. After a while, his ears began to pick up the patterns. It was a very primitive sort of echolocation, but it prevented him from smacking into the walls.

Kirk was doing alright for himself as well. He'd approached moving on uneven footing with inadequate lighting in the same way he approached all challenges; overcoming through sheer obliviousness that there were other outcomes to the situation than success. The bruises on his shins from the first clumsy minutes must have been smarting, but he trailed doggedly along behind Daelus, easily keeping up with the Phaetan. How their guide was faring, Spock couldn't tell; Kirk's body shadowed out all but glimpses, which appeared in snippets around the captain's dark outline. Spock caught a flash of scalp by Kirk's ear, then a red-clad arm by his elbow. Occasionally, Daelus would reach out to touch the wall, brushing his fingers along the rock as though searching for something. Then he'd continue on. The tunnel sloped downwards in fits and starts - there were plain, even stretches that plunged into mad slopes, before evening out again. It was a bit like someone had blindfolded an architect and then asked them to draw a staircase. Once in a while, the passage they were in would split or merge with another, and every time Daelus would reach for the wall then continue on without the slightest doubt or hesitation. Spock memorized the path they took, hoping it wouldn't be necessary to know how to get out on his own.

"Five hundred and twice ten years ago, we did not have the metal, or the energy we have now." Half an hour had passed when Daelus first began speaking. There was a split-second's confusion before Spock realized it was Daelus; in the Spore, his tone had been, if cautious, fiercely invested in the conversation; like he'd hand-picked every word and was fighting to keep his enthusiasm contained. Now, he spoke in a flat voice, devoid of any emotion. He'd learned the story by heart.

"We stayed here, out of the suns. It was easy. There is no well-done heat. When the suns slept, we'd walk out in our earthcuts and find kitchen gardens, lots of food. The Marin was always the map for us. We'd look sky-wise and see crystals in the black, and she'd tell us that they were bonfires of other worlds. She said we'd see them right close when we learned to fly. As we came out of the earthcuts, we went up. She said it will preserve everything."

Dealus trailed off, seemingly lost in thought.

"How old are you?" Kirk asked. "You said 'we'. Were you alive back then?"

"Not hardly," the Phaetan said. "I am three ten and four years? Twice ten and six of ours. They told me we'd looked sky-wise. When the stories are true, it's always 'we'."

The Phaetans counted a year as the time elapsed between the suns overlapped on the sky. Callisto seemed slightly larger than Arcas by virtue of being closer (actually, Arcas' mass exceeded that of the other sun by 3,84%) and as such, the Phaetans could have chosen to synchronize their year to the movement of Phaeton Eta around Callisto the way humans synchronized theirs to that of Sol. However, the Phaetan days and seasons were strongly influenced by Arcas' movement - the second sun had integrated itself into their culture to the degree it was hard to tell if they had any concept of the fact that it wasn't part of their solar system. Their days were 7.2 hours longer than Terran days; Spock found the discrepancy an unwanted complication as it would continue to wreak havoc on the sleeping cycles of his shipmates, as well as force him to keep track of two internal clocks instead of just the usual Federation Standard. Interestingly enough, Daelus' age in Phaetan years seemed to match up with his earlier assessment of youth.

Spock wasn't sure whether it was due to this gap in timelines, the fact that they were cut off from the suns or if there was some third factor at work impeding on his thought processes, but as they continued, he began to lose his grip on the seconds. Losing exact time felt more like being blinded than the decent into darkness had.

Spock distracted himself by examining the geology of the passages. Despite the fact that the rock did not resemble the volcanic stone of Earth, he presumed the underground system had been formed in a similar manner. There were caves, round and smooth on the inside, air bubbles embedded in rock. Ores of different colors began to pervade the walls as they continued, and the floor became covered with a thin sheen of water. It was slippery, and Kirk managed to nearly fall and crack his head several times before mastering a more gliding walk less prone to pitching him into unwanted cartwheels. Fungus began to grow in the corners where the rock was craggy, where the passage had been carved or where it was a fissure, instead of springing from interlocked air bubbles. Still, to a human, there would be little noticeable difference to the carved and the natural parts of the passage; Spock wondered if Kirk knew when they passed from one to the next.

The first truly obvious sign of change was heralded by a ghostly blue glow. Spock thought a delayed chemical reaction was taking place in Daelus' lantern; the light was the same color, and came from ahead, lending the scene greater detail. The tunnel widened, and they stepped into a great cavern. The sudden abundance of space was a weight off Spock's shoulders; it was as if he'd been carrying all those tons of rock above him without realizing it. It was one of the bubble caverns, like the dozens they'd passed through, only twenty times bigger. The bottom of it dipped dramatically, forming a natural bowl, with ten or so tunnels branching off halfway across the far wall. It was difficult to tell how deep the bowl was exactly, as it was filled with water. An underground lake, glowing phosphorescent. The entire cavern was illuminated by it and Spock's eyes ached at the sudden brightness; his pupils couldn't contract quick enough to compensate. He thought of the viscous liquid in his lantern and second guessed his assumption that the lake consisted of water. Then his eyes grew accustomed, and he noted the carpet of entwined stems and leaves covering the rock below the surface of the lake. The plants were cerulean, and shaggy in a way that made Spock want to give them a haircut after he was done taking samples to figure out why they were glowing.

He held his lamp up for comparison. There was no doubt about it; the light was the same. The liquid inside was a plant extract of some kind, essence of glowgrass. It sounded like a name Kirk would give it, so Spock mentally corrected it to poaceaean petroleum, which, while more professional, was no less silly. The relief of space was obviously getting to him.

Spock watched as Kirk tensed for a moment, his eyes flickering around the room. Reassured, the captain spread his arms wide, stretched, and spun like a top. There was a brief flash of a grin then Kirk brought himself to a halt by grabbing on to Spock's shoulder.

"God, it's amazing," he said.

Daelus nodded, eyes shining. "Amazing," he echoed.

Spock remembered his assurance in bringing them there, belied by the small touches to the wall all the way. "This is the first time you have visited this location."

Daelus nodded. "It's... not somewhere to walk lightly. It's an odd path. We walk here once a life, if we're unlucky."

"I can't believe this is a punishment," Kirk said.

"It's not. It's..." Daelus cocked his head, as though listening for the right word. "It's _a'quhr_." The universal translator gave the word a pass, and Spock thought of Uhura.

"Something to do because it's well-done," Daelus clarified. He didn't look entirely satisfied with the translation but left it there.

"How did you know how to find this?" Kirk asked.

"Markers, embedded in the rock," Spock said.

"The Marin mapped it for us." Daelus was still staring at the lake as though he couldn't quite believe it was real.

"Us - you, me and Spock - or _we_?" Kirk sounded genuinely curious.

"We. When we left to go up."

"Well." Kirk smiled. "It really is beautiful. Thank you for taking us. We're absolutely honored."

Daelus gave him a curious glance. "We've uncompleted the walk. Rest, eat, and we'll walk more."

They had walked for seven hours, near as Spock could tell, and were miles under the desert. He wasn't tired yet, and Kirk showed only faint signs of fatigue, but it seemed neglectful to exclude the preoccupation of those left in Aegle and on the Enterprise his prognosis of how long they could continue. Besides, they had been walking steadily downwards since they began. The return journey would likely be much more exhausting.

"How far are we from our current objective?" he asked.

"Two hours, mayhaply?" Daelus settled on a smooth patch of stone near the shore. "Do not skinnydip your fingers. The plants aren't healthful." He looked up at the others, looking oddly worried. "Are you wanting to go back now?"

"Not at all," Kirk reassured him.

"We will sleep on the repeat. I do not want to wear your shoes all out. It would be a poor host thing to do."

"We're fine, Daelus." Kirk settled in beside the Phaetan and pulled his water flask and an oiled piece of cloth out of his pack. "I can eat this, right?" He didn't wait for confirmation, apparently recognizing the spongy green vegetable from the diplomatic dinner.

Spock crouched down by the shore of the lake to examine the plants. He spared a wistful thought for his tricorder and sample jars. With any luck, he might be able to bring some of the petroleum back, at least. It had to be some chemical reaction with the water that brought about the light; Daelus had added water to the oil to make it glow. The air seemed marginally fresher in the cave, it was possible that the plants split the water to its components of hydrogen and oxygen, and used the resultant energy in a showy fashion to attract, or repel, animals. What was fascinating was that Daelus couldn't have added more than a thimbleful of water to their lanterns, and yet they were still glowing; it would be an extremely energy-efficient light source. Energy, and the conservation of it, was always an issue in space.

"Don't skinnydip," Daelus reminded him. "Your skinny will welt and melt."

"I was merely observing." Spock joined the others, selecting a dry red root from his pack to chew. Despite the depth and the rock walls, the temperature was only moderately brisk. Spock shivered as the heat from the exercise faded, and crossed his legs. The chill was not at a dangerous level, only uncomfortable, so he could safely block it out.

Daelus was twitching as well, though it seemed too erratic to be a product of the environment; he looked as though he was on the verge of saying something, only to bite it back.

"Touch Kirk," he finally said, hesitant. "A friend said you do not use your hands to fly your Starship. How do you feel her then?"

Kirk tucked his knees up under his chin and considered the question. "I don't, not in that way. The Enterprise is much too big for me to have direct control over every part of her. We use computers - you have computers, right? You read the Federations nets, so I assumed -"

Daelus hummed. "We innovated them," he said cheerfully.

Kirk snorted. "You can say that. Went right through all the filters. Anyway, we use computers for some tasks on the ship. Parts of navigation, shielding systems, life support - like the line you called up on the windscreen. That simplifies things a bit. There are still way too many systems for one person to keep track of, so we delegate: if you're good at building things, you work with the engines. If you're good at plotting courses and calculating things, you navigate. Spock here -" he bumped Spock's shoulder with his own "- Spock figures things out for us, like which planets are safe to land on. And he's second in command, which means he actively assists the captain and is on continuous standby to take command should anything happen to me."

That was the Starfleet regulations' definition of his job. Spock had memorized it and copied it down in his private log several times during his first month on the Enterprise. In the weeks following the Narada debacle, he found it helpful with daily reminders that he was to assist Kirk in his madcap schemes. Air-locking the captain until he came to his senses had seemed the more logical alternative. Six months later, he'd been cross-referencing the data of earlier entries for emotional patterns and aberrations. It'd been difficult not to smile. The log entry for the following day had read:

_Addendum to Starfleet regulation B-42, subclause A._

_In addition to the duties outlined for the first officer in the above paragraph, let it be noted that the position entails, in the words of Doctor McCoy, "Bailing Jim out of alligator pits a dozen times a week._"

Spock couldn't decide which was worse; when the alligators in question wanted to kill Kirk or when Kirk accidentally married them.

Daelus was looking at him with renewed interest, though, so Spock just nodded serenely. "I assist where I am needed," he said.

"Everyone reads a bit of the ship." Daelus ran a hand through his braids, contemplative. "The mapper, the engine-listener, the windlooker. You talk with the fingerfrisbee navigation?" he asked Kirk.

"Sometimes. Usually, our, um, Touch? That's the word? Does that. Sulu. He's very good - you'd like him."

"Then whatfor is _your_ purpose?"

"A little of everything," Kirk said. "I decide what we're to do. Like how your brain keeps track of your arms, and legs, and mouth. I make sure we work as a single organism." He frowned. "Wow, that sounded dictatorial. Of course we don't _think_ alike, but we sometimes need to act as one when things go bad."

"He reads the crew," Spock interjected. "He keeps us safe and ensures we do not lose sight of our fundamental values or goals. That is the function of the captain."

Daelus hummed, gazing out over the lake, apparently lost in thought. Kirk shrugged vaguely when Spock looked to him for direction. They'd given Daelus a small amount of information on their importance to the landing party, nothing the Phaetans wouldn't already know from their trawls across the Fednet. Curiously, Daelus seemed less informed about other cultures and technology than Crius, Epia and the Marin had been; it suggested a definite hierarchy of information, as well as a certain amount of caution.

"Like Epia," Daelus muttered. "She reads people. She keeps us safe."

"She's an excellent ambassador," Kirk offered, diplomatic smile back in place. Apparently, the sight of Daelus obviously processing information brought the fact that he'd be reporting to his superiors when they returned to Aegle back in full focus. "Best dancer I've ever seen. If you see her, tell her that offer to go clubbing is still standing."

Daelus' expression was somewhere between a question mark and a profound suspicion of what the word 'clubbing' could entail.

"Mayhaply," he said. "I could learn to be a Starship Touch. Then we could go a'clubbing safely." A pause. "I'm a superlative Touch," he added.

"Yeah. I know. You'd be welcome aboard the Enterprise."

Kirk had gotten - well, if not wise, at least better at recognizing potential minefields. Spock bit back what felt oddly like pride for his friend. Epia was obviously a soft spot for Daelus. Not exploiting it was kind in a way Spock hadn't been sure Kirk could be kind.

"You know," Kirk had dug out his water flask and was fingering absentmindedly at the lid. "On Earth, we have these academies. They teach you all you'd ever dreamed of about flying. I whined about all the work they made us do while I was there. I can't even remember the individual assignments anymore -" he threw Spock a sidelong glance "- save one or two, but the good stuff sticks. I used to think that space was a sucking black void, something that ate all you cared about in the world. Seeing all those people, from all over the universe, walking together, learning together - it changes you. It makes you a part of something bigger than all your own fucked up issues." Kirk shoved the bottle back in his bag, seemingly unaware that he'd not even taken a sip. "I'll take you there one day. You should see it for yourself. I bet Starfleet would have a place for you."

"I-" Daelus swallowed. "Thank you. I'm not certain of the possibleness, but likewise, thank you."

"No problem." Kirk coughed. "Should we get going, now? I want to get back before Bones stages a rescue mission."

"Positive." Daelus was on his feet in the hurried manner of someone vaguely uncomfortable. He rubbed his forearm nervously and scuffed at the ground while the other two gathered their things.

"Mayhaply," he said, "if you neverever doublefingercross promise not to informify the others-"

"Promise," Kirk said quickly. Spock held up a solemn hand, and Daelus gave them a brilliant smile.

"Touch Kirk, would you like to fly a Spore?"

* * *

><p>After the time they'd spent in the spacious lake cave, the passage Daelus lead them along seemed to constrict around them. Spock dismissed this as a psychological phenomenon until the top of his head scraped against a particularly vicious stalactite. He hadn't been paying adequate attention to his surroundings. Kirk was regaling Daelus with various anecdotes from the Academy, and Spock found himself dragged into the conversation to prevent the Phaetan from getting the wrong idea of Starfleet altogether.<p>

(Spock, I can't believe no-one ever mentioned Mudslug Monday to you. Didn't you wonder why all your students showed up to class purple?)

Spock hadn't wondered. 43% of Starfleet cadets were of non-Terran origin, and with all the odd pheromones being emitted, these things happened occasionally.

Despite throwing off his echolocation, the discussion answered one of his unasked questions. Daelus was young and inexperienced. Crius or Epia would have been the obvious choice to take foreign dignitaries on a tour of the Phaeton underground. They wouldn't make inadvertent slips of the tongue or accidentally insult anyone. At first, Spock had assumed the choice of guide was because Daelus had the basic qualifications to get them to their destination - namely the ability to fly a Spore, and the physical condition to walk for hours in semi-darkness. By allowing Kirk to fly for part of the return journey without training, Daelus had rendered the first part of the theory invalid. Without it, the second part seemed a weak justification. Crius might have problems with the descent, but Epia was almost as young as Daelus and had the same tensile physique.

However, Daelus and Kirk obviously enjoyed each other's company. They shared an honest exuberance for flying and were both slightly reckless. The Marin couldn't have picked a better diplomat for the task; Spock and Kirk were both putting their lives in Daelus' hands. It was the gift Sorel had mentioned would be needed to restart negotiations. Unqualified trust on the Starfleet delegation's side, and in return, they were trusted with something sacred to the Phaetans.

The conversation petered out as the floor grew gradually steeper and slipperier. Spock estimated them to be on the final stretch; it was as if the tunnel, having tried for hours to dissuade them from continuing, was pulling out every weapon in its arsenal for a final attempt. The roof and walls fell in uneven waves, worn smooth by the dripping water. The thought occurred to him that perhaps it wasn't a tunnel as much as it was a cone. They'd just keep crawling through an ever-tightening space until they couldn't go any further. Or worse: the tunnel would get wider and smaller in never ending circles, they'd been led down here to be trapped in a Moebius strip of damp and darkness. The air was heavy in his lungs. When he breathed in, it ran thick and sticky as porridge down his trachea. There wasn't enough oxygen; there was too much water, and the endless rock above must have compressed the air somehow, rendering it a liquid.

Ahead of him, Kirk slipped, and Spock caught him by the arm. He let him go as soon as the other man regained his balance. Kirk's footsteps were growing sloppy and uneven, the half-crouched ramble was much more exhausting than walking upright.

When Kirk slipped again, Spock kept a hand on his elbow. It didn't take long after that before they were forced to crawl forwards on their hands and knees.

Daelus showed them how to attach their lanterns to the strap of their packs. "It didn't use to be like this," he whispered. "Bits dropped. Avalanche."

Kirk's breath hitched and Spock ran a hand up across the arch of the ceiling. The stone was smooth as silk beneath his touch, and he ran rapid calculations in his head.

"The structural integrity is acceptable," he said. "Without adequate equipment, the conclusion is based on insufficient data and is at best questionable, but I do not believe we are in danger."

"Thanks, Spock," whispered Kirk.

From that point on, Spock regularly checked the arch of the tunnel. It grew harder and harder as his fingers lost sensation. The rock was cold, and like the air, the sensation seemed liquid, running up through his fingertips through his veins to his heart. He was wracked with full body tremors, and ahead of him, Kirk's teeth were chattering. Daelus seemed marginally better off, though he was keeping up a steady litany. Bits were in Standard, reassurances - _blink and you'll miss the distance to arriving. It's a rolling stone's throw. I'm a superlative Touch, the excellentest there is, you'll be safe_ - and bits were in Phaetan. It sounded like he was praying, though the sound was too faint for the universal translators to pick up the sounds. It was almost a relief when small pebbles began to lodge in Spock's hands and knees. Even though it stung, it was a change. The rock around them had long since faded from the deep violet of the lake cave to a jet black that, more than anything else, told him how deep they'd stumbled along in a daze for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, Spock's hand reached out and met something warm and soft, curved to fit his palm. It took him a moment to realize it was Kirk's leg. Kirk had stopped; he was blocking up the passage ahead of him.

"Oh," Kirk whispered.

Daelus unfolded himself with creaking bones, stepping from the mouth of the tunnel into the black beyond, and Spock leaned over Kirk's shoulder, wanting to see what they were seeing, what they'd crawled though hell for.

There was nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

Daelus was standing tall, his lantern illuminating a great sphere around him. The light splashed an irregular circle along the floor, easily a hundred meters across, and it didn't even touch the far wall of the cavern. Spock couldn't see it all, but he felt it; the solemn immensity of the space, the lantern no bigger than a candle in a mess hall.

"Where are we?" Kirk asked. The quiet question carried and ricocheted off the walls.

Daelus didn't answer. He held his light up high and began walking away from them.

"Perhaps we should move," Spock suggested.

Kirk stayed where he was, curled up against the tunnel wall. "Just give me a moment."

Spock maneuvered himself opposite Kirk, setting his lantern between them. Kirk rubbed his hands on his trousers, removing the worst of the grime. His shirt and pants were damaged beyond repair - there were large smears of mud, coffee-brown on his command golds, and the knees of his pants were worn straight through the enforced layers of cloth. Skin shone eerily in the blue lighting, with swollen red scratches criss-crossing across the kneecaps. His pupils were blown, and he reminded Spock of a lemur, or an owl, some small creature that emerged at night to hunt, wild-eyed and on constant watch for larger predators.

"The cave I used to live in. It wasn't very big," Kirk said. "We - I'd go out at night sometimes."

"Open spaces make you feel vulnerable."

Kirk shrugged. "No. I just got into the habit of listening first. Checking for traps and such."

Spock thought of flying, of canyons and tripping off cliffs, and nodded. He was no stranger to illogical fear. "I will assist you. My hearing is superior to that of humans."

Kirk's hand found his ankle, but the captain didn't say anything. Spock listened. There were three heartbeats, two of which were fast, one which was inhumanly slow, one set of muted footsteps fading into the distance and the steady drip-drip-drip of water like the ticking of a clock.

Suddenly, Kirk's grip tightened. "Look."

Daelus had reached the far side of the cavern, and where the light of his lantern fell on the cave wall, bands of silver flickered. At first they reflected the light wanly, like the moon, then they grew brighter and brighter until they were a clear white. The light sped along the ores in the rock like flame along spilled petrol, branching out in an incandescent net. It grew across the ceiling, which soared hundreds of meters above them, and along the walls. True to Spock's instincts, the room was immense. The Enterprise could have fit in the oblong cave without more than a few minor scratches. Unable to resist, Spock stepped out into the open, running has hand across the rock as he did so. The glowing bands were cool to the touch.

"_Fuck_ me," Kirk declared solemnly. He stood beside Spock, head tilted all the way back, following the progress of the light. "This is not what I was expecting."

Daelus was pacing the perimeter, heading back towards them. His footsteps were soft; thick patches of moss covered the rock beneath them. The plants were emerald green and looked soft as down, Spock wished he could curl up on it sleep for a week. In a sad sort of compromise, he bent to run his hand over them.

"I really hope this is where we were going," Kirk said to Daelus when he reached them. "Because honestly, I don't see how you could fit anything bigger down here without ending up knee deep in lava."

"This is the Centre," Daelus confirmed. He shut his eyelids and held up his hand as if he was trying very hard to dredge up a specific memory and didn't want to be interrupted.

"This is..." he trailed off then tried again. "This is where we came from, and where we return to. No matter how high or far we go, we will always return home. That is the heart of who we are." He opened his eyes again and gave them a small smile. "Epia translated that for me. It's a particle part of the stories. She says that when she carries the Marin and feeds her to the moss, she wants me to hold the lantern as her third hand."

"Feeds her to the...?" Kirk moved to a bare spot of rock.

"When we leave our coils amongst the pushed daisies, we burn. The Marin burns too, and her ashes are returned. We lived in these caves before we flew. We take her ashes back for all of us and go back to the caves in our hearts with her."

Kirk coughed. "You might want to stop petting the moss, Spock."

"Understand that we are scared, Touch Kirk." Daelus gestured at the light above, the plants, the huge dome of rock. "We might forget who we are. We might fall so far into the stars we can't find our way back. We are the people of the Marin, and we neverever forget."

Kirk spoke softly, "I'm not asking you to give anything up. I'm asking you to see how much more there is out there. You can't shut out the rest of the galaxy forever." He gestured at Spock. "Meeting other perspectives doesn't make you lose yours. It helps you define it."

Daelus hummed.

Something was nagging at Spock. "You summoned us," he said. "Why now? Haste does not seem to be in the nature of your people. The Federation would not have initiated contact until you discovered Warp technology. Why do you endeavor to hasten a future you fear?"

"We wanted it on our terminology."

"The Prime Directive forbids us to negotiate in any other manner."

"It's never good when one party has all the water and knows the others will just go thirsty if they don't talk." Daelus tugged uncomfortably at his sleeve. "The Marin told me to informify you. She reads sentences of your intentions on the nets, just a word of a whole book, and she likes you best of all the Enterprisers."

"You need us," Kirk said. "We have something that can help you, and you need us. What is it?"

"A great explosion," Daelus said.

Spock could read the surprise in every line of Kirk's posture and took care to keep it out of his own. He'd been expecting something along the lines of 'penicillin' or 'geological equipment to locate underground reservoirs of water'. 'A great explosion' seemed a very Human request.

"Sorry?" Kirk said. "Not that I object to explosions on general principle but... what?"

"We watch the skies. Phaeton Eta is like a Spore hanging just right in the magnet's field. If you hit it, it goes into one sun or another." Daelus explained this with the patience of someone explaining to a child that yes, fire is hot, and yes, if you stick your fingers into it, it will burn you.

Kirk frowned. "Nope, you lost me at the part where the planet's like a Spore, so you want to blow something up."

Spock got it, though.

Several unrelated things snapped together in his head to form a complete picture.

"Three point two Terran years," he said. "You took us here so we could appreciate the entirety of what would be lost."

Daelus smiled at him.

Kirk looked from one to the other. "Your planet is going to verge off course," he ventured. "Into a sun. Which is bad."

"In three point two Terran years, an asteroid will impact with the surface of the planet, throwing it off course. Yes, Captain, it is bad."

Daelus shook his head. "No, it's perfect. We watched your documentarial films about Armageddon, and when you hid your best Touches and Marins in caves like ours to survive. We'll blow it up like you did."

"I'm not sure those were documentaries, Daelus," Kirk said sheepishly. "But it's a good idea."

Spock shook his head. "The asteroid in question is too large. If we attempted to blow it up, the chances of every resulting piece of debris avoiding the planet would be five-hundred forty-seven to one. The result would be the same. We do not have the technology to store red matter, which would be required to vaporize the asteroid completely."

Kirk pursed his lips as if to whistle then thought better of it. "Are you sure? How the hell do you know that?"

Spock raised an eyebrow. "Our navigator sent me a report two days ago detailing the properties of asteroid Hikaru-Pavel. He has yet to calculate the exact trajectory of his discovery. I am basing my calculations on its location relative to Phaeton Eta, as well as the gravitational fields of the surrounding celestial bodies."

"But you're magic," Daelus insisted. "You have Starships and beams of light and - and we'll help. We have technology."

"Yeah. There's got to be something." Kirk looked like he did when asked to make a particularly difficult call.

"The Vulcan Science Academy has researched hypothetical situations such as this," Spock said. Even though new research into the subject was put on hold, the studies would still be available in the backup databanks of the Federation.

"The VSA's too wrapped up in its own survival to help." Spock recognized the flint in Kirk's voice from the first time he'd taken the Kobayashi Maru. "We might be able to do something, but we're going to need your cooperation."

"Promise you'll help," said Daelus.

"If you help us, we'll help you. As your allies, that would be our duty."

Spock glanced at Kirk. He didn't believe that Kirk would leave the Phaetans to die if they refused to negotiate a treaty, but with the safety of his crew hanging in the balance, Kirk was obviously willing to discard Starfleet regulations to make sure the negotiations succeeded. Blackmail was immoral, whether Kirk intended to follow through or not.

"We'll help," Daelus promised. "Our Marin told me to say this: We'll help. We'll sign your paper, and you'll keep us safe. And when you produce the black sheep, you'll all fly back home safe and happy. Or we all die together." He blinked once, very slowly. "I am sorry, Touch Kirk, but these are our terms."


	10. Memory

_**A/N: **Here we go again! Thank you so much to everyone who has stuck with the story this far, and to everyone who has taken the time to comment. I appreciate each and every review :) _

_Also thanks to Dizdayn, without whom the story would be a lot less. _

_Star Trek belongs to Paramount Viacom._

* * *

><p><strong>X. Memory<strong>

The journey back through the narrow tunnel felt simultaneously shorter and longer than before. Though Kirk and Spock had both torn strips off their uniform shirts to wrap around their palms and knees, the floor grated at already raw skin, leaving their scratches to bleed freely. Daelus, though unharmed by the rock, seemed disconnected from reality. He moved mechanically, and didn't speak at all. Spock supposed it couldn't be a pleasant experience to discover the people you'd been counting on for help weren't the all-powerful beings you'd thought they were. It helped their pace that they knew they were moving across known terrain, into the light. The prospect of fresh air seemed to have given Kirk new strength, and in addition to supporting their guide, he made sure Spock followed along.

Spock was almost as unresponsive as Daelus. He was considering the possible options for averting the asteroid and didn't notice their surroundings until they were standing again, and Kirk leaned on the wall to catch his breath.

"My physical strength is superior to that of a Human. I can carry your pack for you," Spock offered.

Kirk shook his head. "I'm fine. Despite what you and Bones think, I'm not actually made of paper." Spock must have shown a flicker of emotion, because Kirk added; "If you're up to it, you can carry Daelus' pack. I think he might pass out."

The Phaetan clutched the strap of his pack and made a cutting movement with his right hand.

"Don't be stubborn," Kirk said. "Spock's strong. He lifted this huge boulder off my leg once."

Spock felt like mentioning something about glass houses, rocks and stubbornness, but at Kirk's insistence, the Phaetan handed his bag over gratefully. Spock felt a slight twinge of guilt; yes, he didn't have all the calculations down yet, but he was fairly sure that given three years, he could move the asteroid in pretty much any direction the Phaetans wanted. Kirk had painted Daelus a much bleaker picture.

"You've worn out your shoes," Daelus said quietly. "Bad host thing to do."

Kirk gave an incredulous laugh. "Yeah, well, we're not all you expected either, are we?"

"I know a nice place," Daelus said. "Epia told me."

Whether it was that thought or the loss of his pack that made Daelus wake up a little, Spock wasn't sure, but they moved faster after that. When they reached the lake cave, they didn't continue on up the entrance tunnel but followed the shore counterclockwise around the lake until they reached another tunnel entrance. Daelus stepped across what looked like a threshold carved in the rock, and led them past a fork in the way and around a corner to a small bubble of a cave. The walls and roof curved into each other, making it impossible to tell where one ended and the next began. The floor, on the other hand, was clearly marked by moss similar to that in the great cavern; it was a faded sea green instead of emerald but looked just as soft. It was a thoroughly welcome sight

Daelus simply threw himself along the nearest wall, curled up, and went to sleep.

Kirk afforded him his privacy, leaving his bag by the far wall. He stripped off the tattered remains of his command golds and folded it into a makeshift pillow. Spock copied the idea, thankful for the fact that their uniforms incorporated multiple layers. Kirk watched him as he settled down beside him.

"We'll have to convince the Marin to let us contact Scotty once we're back," Kirk whispered. "We can find out who our poisoner is once we've got a solution to the asteroid-problem to bargain with. I'm not leaving the murderer here; I want the son of a bitch court-martialed."

"Affirmative."

Kirk rolled onto his side, and nuzzled into the moss. His eyelids were heavy with exhaustion. "M'gonna sleep a bit," he said. "Hey, Spock?"

Spock raised an eyebrow.

"Thanks for coming with me."

Spock thought of explaining to the captain that it was his duty to act as support and offer his assistance whenever required, that it was not a matter of him choosing to accompany Kirk, but of Kirk letting him go with him, and that, if presented with the opportunity to enter a wormhole and, like Ambassador Spock, go back to an earlier point in his life, he would still make the same choice, but by the time he'd strung it all together in a coherent speech, Kirk was fast asleep.

* * *

><p>Spock carefully toed the line between sleep and waking. He hadn't slept for close to forty-eight hours, and his system was screaming at him for rest, but his shields were comparatively weak. He did not want to wake up thrashing, the barriers keeping his emotions at bay razed to the ground by another nightmare. His brain required a little over an hour of continuous sleep to fall into a REM-cycle, and if he woke up with half-hour intervals, he should be fine.<p>

They'd muffled the lanterns by putting them in their packs, so it was dark; there was no point in opening his eyes if it made no difference.

Perhaps he could afford just a few more minutes before regaining full consciousness.

It was like circling a drain, he felt like he was moving forwards, but instead he was just slipping deeper and deeper.

_When he finally opens his eyes, it's not dark at all. He's standing at the edge of a massive field in the shadow of a crude wooden tribunal. The sun's high in the sky, throwing the whole scene into stark illumination. A group of people are standing before the tribunal. Their arms are chained together behind their backs, and they're all in a neat line. Some have their shoulders back in defiance, looking into the sun or towards him. Some are hunched over. There is a young woman about halfway down the file who's collapsed; the chains around her wrists and ankles keep her upright. Her neighbors are staggering under the effort of supporting her. He can't make out the details of their faces at a distance._

_He knows them, though. He crosses the field mindless of the ocean of white noise and the masses in the tribunals. There are no facets to them he can hold on to; he is certain that they are unimportant to the scene playing out before him. He will forget them later._

_The gray dust puffs out in tiny clouds beneath his bare feet. He imagines that they can solidify beneath him, lifting him up and carrying him away._

Spock wanted out; even though he couldn't remember the place, he knew what would happen next.

_The boy at the end of the file is called Kevin. He's got a cut across his forehead, hair like a mop, and 206 bones in his body. Most of them are visible. Sam's next, he's in marginally better shape, but Sam's always been able to take care of himself. There's Emmy, Tom, boy-with-limp (and that one's going to eat at him later, how can he not know his name, Limp's going to die in five minutes, and then he'll just be forgotten), Anna and Boot (kept responsible footwear, a first-aid kit and a sack of grain buried before it all went sour; they used to think he was a bit mad)._

There was a soft moan to his right, and he tried to reach for it, to drag himself out of the field.

_The next part of the line is a silver haze, and then each new face is a painful jolt: Uhura, hair falling lankly across her face, Bones. Chekov and Sulu holding each other upright. Winona Kirk (a strange sort of double vision, he recognizes her from Iowa and from the medal ceremony after the Narada debacle. The points of view don't match up.) Christopher Pike, Chapel-from-sickbay, Scotty, and furthest away is -_

_Spock?_

Spock?

_It's not him._

He's _standing twenty paces away. Spock looks at himself in the mirror when his human genes impose the annoyance of being forced to shave on him: he is three inches shorter than the individual at the end of the line, and he's quite sure that his hair doesn't usually shine like that. There is no doubt that the individual isn't a full Vulcan, though. His ears, though tapered, have a curve to them that speaks of mixed heritage. There is a slant to the shoulders, a softening of the jaw._

_They're all going to die. Kevin goes first, as usual, not even bothering with a deep breath before the plunge, before his forehead has a neat little hole through it, and he can't take anymore breaths at all. Their heads snap backwards as they're called. Emmy curses when it's her turn. She had a voracious appetite for everything, especially life. If they were judged by the magnitude of their crime, she would have been shot first. She ate for two, even if her belly is flat and empty by now._

_He tries to move, to run to them and save them, but there is an invisible wall bisecting the distance between him and the prisoners. He leaps, trying to find the top, but it just goes on and on to the edge of the atmosphere. He tries to run around it and discovers it's not an invisible wall, it's a glass cage. Uhura's head snaps, and he screams himself hoarse. He's throwing himself at the wall, kicking at it, scrabbling desperately for just a tiny imperfection in the smooth surface. He's too light to do any damage, though - every time he flings himself forward, he's only made more aware of the fact that he's as hollow as bird's bones. He hasn't eaten for days. His core is rotten and corrupted. His skin hangs loose on his frame, wrinkled and gray._

_With each death, there is less of him. He thinks the gray dust must be from others like him, who've lost too much of themselves to continue._

_Then it's Bones, and the scream just sticks in his throat. Starfleet came. It can't end like this - why isn't Starfleet coming? The sky is blue and perfect, and there is no help anywhere._

A thought took root in the lucid part of Spock's mind, and he struggled harder. He knew this. He'd never seen the place before, but he knew what would happen. Starfleet would be too late for most of them, but they'd come eventually. Some of the prisoners would live. He sent up a silent prayer for his crewmates.

_They keep dying, one by one, until the dust is a sodden red, saturated with blood. Blood contains water and nourishment; maybe wheat will be able to grow there. There is a dull sort of hope in that. Only the half-vulcan is left, now. He lifts his head defiantly, and their eyes lock for a a second._

It was Spock. He was instinctively sure, despite the tiny errors in appearance. He was going to watch himself die.

_Goodbye, Jim._

The wall burst, and Spock's thoughts were flooded with a wave of _ohfucknoIwon'tletithappen_-despair. The sudden deluge of emotion slapped him instantly awake. He was on his back in a dark cave on Phaeton Eta, he was breathing like he'd just run a marathon, and his arm was stretched out to his right to gently touch Kirk's wrist.

Kirk was twitching under Spock's fingers, whimpering under his breath. Under the mud stains, his forehead was slick with sweat.

Spock brushed away a smear of dirt that threatened to run into Kirk's mouth. "Jim," he said. "Wake up."

Kirk winced, curling in on himself like a wounded animal. He batted Spock's arm away with his right hand. His left dropped to his belt, where his phaser would normally be. Upon realizing where he was, he relaxed. His eyes focused on Spock.

"Sorry. I'm a restless sleeper. If I kick you, just kick back." Kirk gave Spock a crooked and thoroughly stale grin. "Maybe I'll keep watch for a bit."

When Spock made no move to drift off again, Kirk gave him a dismissive wave. "Seriously, Spock. Go back to sleep. We've still got some walking to do."

"You are a Tarsus survivor." Spock said, his voice inflectionless.

"I was talking in my sleep. You know, humans dream of flying all the time. It doesn't mean we actually can -"

"Why didn't you _tell me_?" Spock caught the growl before it emerged but not the contraction. Things were rapidly snapping into place, small irregularities in Kirk's actions were lining up. Spock wasn't sure where to begin talking. "I am your friend. You have been having nightmares strong enough to resonate along our bond for years, and you never told me."

Kirk slouched as the bravado left him and rubbed at his face with his hands. Without the attitude, he looked like a lost little boy. "First off, I haven't had the nightmares for years-"

That time, Spock wasn't fast enough to catch the snarl. He clapped a hand to his mouth, horrified with himself. _The moss is soft, but it is irrelevant. Your bondmate is one of approximately twenty survivors of one of the most horrific genocides in history, where he was sentenced to death for not passing genetic muster and eating food reserved for the ruling class, but you can't feel it. He would have been around ten at the time, not that it matters, nothing beyond the border of your presence -_

Tarsus was the pile of dust Starfleet swept under the rug when speaking of colonization, the great beautiful beyond, ripe for the taking. It was something bound to be unearthed decades later; when time and distance allowed the future admirals and politicians to distance themselves from their predecessors, to condemn their failures and write books and speeches about the scope of human tragedy. It was still too close to touch - an ugly reminder that Starfleet wasn't infallible, that millions had died because they were too slow, too wrapped up in bureaucracy to act. The survivors weren't encouraged to share their experiences. Everyone else had moved on; it was supposed they had done the same.

"If you have not been sleeping adequately, it will affect your efficiency in reacting to challenging situations-" Kirk wasn't getting enough rest. Spock could deal with that. He could take some of Kirk's shifts, and maybe talk McCoy into getting him sleep meds.

"My efficiency's fine, Spock." Kirk's voice was flat.

"You cannot simply ignore this and hope it will disappear on its own. You are human. You are unequipped for such a battle."

Kirk gave an incredulous snort. "And you wonder why I haven't told you. You just don't get it, Spock, do you? I dealt with all this years ago. I'm not going to let a handful of bad experiences dictate who I am. I already beat this once."

"I can see that you are coping admirably on your own." Spock hadn't meant to say it with such acidity, but there wasn't any kindness left in him to soften the words with. All he had was the bitter sting of not being quite good enough, not being trusted enough to know that Kirk was in pain.

"Yes, well, fuck you too. I'm not like you; I can't just watch my friends get shot in front of me and then waltz off to another day on the job-"

"You are_ exactly_ like me!" Spock winced as his voice echoed in the small cave and brought down the volume. "You did not think, not even for an instant, that watching those you love die in front of you while you are utterly powerless to stop it would be something I understood? You did not stop to contemplate that being one of the few survivors of genocide would be familiar to me? And it did not occur to you that when I linked our minds together, creating a type of resonance not even Vulcans understand fully, that all this might be _relevant_?"

"No."

A small, detached part of Spock noted that it had been several months since he'd last had the urge to slap Kirk against the nearest wall and punch the marrow out of him.

"No, I, um-" Kirk inched away from Spock. "You're smoldering."

Blind, insensitive, foolish _Human_. Spock took a deep breath and imagined his shields in all their egg-shell glory - perfect, solid, and impossible to see through. Kirk's emotions were a mess, and he did not need the fireworks display the bond put on whenever Kirk was worked up.

Kirk, in an excellent example of his inability to see common sense even when provided with a microscope and detailed directions on where to find it, grabbed Spock by the shoulders.

"Don't do that. Let me explain. Don't just logic it all away."

Spock raised both eyebrows. Kirk hastily withdrew his hands.

"I was pretty small when Tarsus happened." Kirk dug his fingers into the moss by his side, as if anchoring himself. "Well, I thought I was old and wise, but I've thought that since I was five. My mom was having a bit of trouble with Earth - after my dad died, she had trouble with a lot of things - so she decided to give us a fresh start. Start again somewhere quiet where no one had heard of George Kirk, just me, my brother and her. And for a year or so it was - well, it was the happiest I've ever been. I had my family.

"I've read official reports at the Academy, and they got bits of it right. There was disease, and the fires they used to burn out the disease, and animals dead in the fields because after the fires, there just wasn't anything. The new colonists, the ones without much stashed away, were just left to starve. We got desperate." He gave Spock a sidelong glance. "Really desperate."

"I understand."

"Eventually, everyone new to the planet got a blanket blacklist - that meant everyone who wasn't part of the original group of settlers, Governor Kodos' group. They rounded us up, killed us, and those who didn't get caught found some nice caves to live in."

"You know what happened. They finally caught up with the last of us - me, my brother, and about fifty others. Kodos executed over half before Starfleet came. My brother and I were placed in our uncle's care back on Earth. I... think my mother probably died. We got separated and surviving Tarsus took a special kind of -"

"Determination?" Spock suggested gently.

Kirk nodded. "She was seeing ghosts already. She wouldn't have cared enough to fight, or steal, or whatever it took to get food."

Spock wondered if he should speak. He wanted to have better words than the ones that occurred to him.

"My uncle never knew what hit him." Kirk picked at the moss. "He was a jerk, but he'd had a pretty quiet life until then - and suddenly, wham, he's got two traumatized kids on his hands who hated him because he's not their parents, and he's got no idea what to do with them. Sam was... er... inventive..."

Spock could only imagine the carnage.

"That was the first time I beat the nightmares. I did stupid stuff for years. I almost drove a car off a cliff, once. So I figured, if I could face that..." Kirk shrugged. "The stupid stuff stuck, even after therapy."

"Why did you not inform me of this?" Spock asked again.

"Because after Vulcan, you were so fucking together and dignified -"

_In what universe_, thought Spock,_ does indiscriminate homicidal rage count as 'dignified'_?

"- once you got over your little Klingon outburst. You'd just lost your mother, I know how that felt - I knew exactly how to use it against you because I'd _been_ there - I wasn't about to go up to you and say 'Hey, Spock, I know you're hurting right now, and you're doing fantastically well; let me tell you about some dreams I'm having because something vaguely similar happened to me, once, and - why, no, I didn't take it quite so well. Spent a few years drunk off my ass, now you ask. Had lots of indiscriminate, if fantastic sex - yes, felonies too, almost as bad as the ones I committed on Tarsus, I think they still keep a cell in the Riverside Penitentiary with my name on it-"

"Perhaps not all of that," said Spock, "but _'I know how this feels'_ would have been appreciated."

"I know," Kirk said, and much to Spock's trepidation, he ran a hand from Spock's shoulder down his arm, letting it rest on his elbow for a few moments before cupping Spock's hand in his own. Like the touch after Spock had blacked out in the Spore, Kirk's fingers against his felt as an embrace would. A part of Kirk wound tight around him, and Spock gave in to the implicit apology in the gesture.

"You have been having nightmares for a year," he said.

"A few."

Spock raised an eyebrow.

"A few. Really. It didn't get bad until after Niamh." Kirk held up a hand. "Don't say it. Yes, I did get help. Bones knows about me. He was my roommate at the Academy, and he saw me very, very drunk once." Kirk frowned. "He's scarier that you are when he's pissed off." He gave Spock's hand a small squeeze. "Apparently, I'd been talking in Vulcan in my sleep while he patched up my leg. He weaseled the fact that I was having nightmares out of me, gave me a hypospray to the shoulder, made me promise not to do anything stupid, and went off to do research."

"The nightmares started to occur at approximately the same time in my case. The fact that you seem to have picked up on my natural speech patterns would suggest that the bond has enabled us to communicate on a sub-conscious level."

His conversation with the older Spock raised some questions. Spock wasn't quite sure how exactly a bond meant they were having shared nightmares, but he was fairly certain that it was his fault. _T'Lema, dreamwalker, Vulcan telepathic warrior, two-for-one reliving of trauma at a reduced rate._

Surak, even his inner voice was beginning to sound like Kirk.

"The effect will disappear when Ambassador Sorel severs our bond," he reassured Kirk. "I apologize profoundly for the distress I have caused."

"No offense taken where none is..." Kirk trailed off, lighting up as if a switch had been flicked somewhere in his brain. "Ha! That's why you stayed up all night yesterday. I thought you'd just be all, 'oh, dreams, how illogical', but you haven't been sleeping either. You're just as scared as I am!" His voice was somewhere between delighted and sympathetic. "You sneaky, hypocritical bastard. You didn't tell me that you were having nightmares because you were embarrassed!"

Spock ducked his head. "...Affirmative."

"And you had the gall to tell me off." Kirk laughed softly, then slid his arms around Spock in a real, physical hug. "Christ, we both need therapy," he said.

"Perhaps," Spock suggested, "sleep would be a more viable option at the moment. As you pointed out, we still have some distance to cover."

"Well, yeah." Kirk said. He ducked his head. "Um, Spock? This whole 'resonance' thing - do you think maybe you could dampen it somehow, just 'till Sorel fixes it? It's not exactly pleasant. I'm coping with the whole Tarsus thing, but having flashbacks whenever you mess with my head isn't exactly making it easier. I think I've been seeing bits of Vulcan mixed up with it, too. Plus, it kinda feels like someone's having a party in my parietal lobe with a jackhammer."

"I will attempt to improve my shielding."

"Wonderful."

"On one condition - in the future, you will tell me about anything that might affect our bond. I understand that there are parts of yourself, and your past, that you do not wish to share. I am, however -" Spock bit back on the ashy taste at the back of his mouth. "I am not infallible. My shields are mediocre at best. There are dangers inherent in being bonded to an unstable Vulcan - especially for a psi-null individual - and it is necessary that I have the necessary information to protect you. If I am inadvertently projecting information and images, I am less able to keep our minds separate than I thought."

"Yeah. Yeah, ok. I can do that."

Spock waited for a moment to see if anything was immediately forthcoming and breathed a sigh of relief when Kirk just shrugged and yawned.

"Goodnight then, Jim," said Spock.

If Kirk hadn't been pressed against him, he wouldn't have caught the faint tremor humming through the human. Kirk pulled back and bit his lower lip, considering.

"Unlike some others, I slept last night. I'll keep watch."

Spock didn't need the telepathic link to translate that into: 'I don't want to go back to sleep. I can't face another nightmare right now.'

He sighed. "There are dark circles under your eyes."

"Mud?" Kirk suggested.

Perhaps it was the semi-darkness that did it. They'd spent so long in the damp caves it was easy to forget a world existed outside. Sunshine, five year missions and the Enterprise seemed very far away. It was one of those moments that sometimes occur late at night; Spock had seen it once or twice. People would open themselves, secure in the knowledge that they were operating under different rules now, that when the day broke nobody would mention what had been said or done- selective social amnesia brought on by nightfall. Perhaps it was only because it was Jim; Spock had _thought about this_, driven himself to distraction over the way Kirk would drape himself in the captain's chair, and wondered how the lazy, indolent lines of his body would fit against Spock's. Spock found it startlingly easy to wrap himself around Kirk and bury his nose in his hair. "I've got you," he echoed.

It still didn't make any sense, but judging by the way Kirk eased down until they were both stretched out on the ground, he found it reassuring. Spock kept one arm around Kirk's shoulders, holding him against his chest. Kirk slung an arm across his waist, burrowing in against Spock in a possessive manner. Kirk was warm, like the science console on the Enterprise, vibrating softly with energy - pulse points and huffed breaths against Spock's clavicle. Despite the overwhelming odor of must, sand and sweat the clung to both of them, Kirk still smelled vaguely like home; bad-quality, Starfleet-regulation soap and machine oil. He was such a solid, sprawling weight, with patches of bare skin on his hands, neck, knees and face all burning against Spock.

Spock tightened his arms a little, shifted so that Kirk was settled along him, molded to him, filling the hollows above his hips and beside his shoulder with his body. The corner of Kirk's mouth was soft against Spock's neck. With each breath Kirk drew, air trickled across Spock's skin with the most delicious whispers of heat, and moisture; because Spock's shields were down, and if echoes of Kirk's mouth felt that good, Surak, he should turn them over, use gravity to mold them even closer, until every plane and curve of their bodies were fitted and their lips and tongues as well, he should take everything Kirk would give him. Lock their legs together and bare more of those burning patches of skin. Spock felt drunk on the smell of Kirk, drunk and suddenly ravenous, and he shifted his leg to wrap around Kirk's before he realized what he was doing.

And froze. Kirk's pulse was hammering, mirroring his own. Spock thought if Kirk moved away now he might just die; it was hyperbole, illogical, but that aching, sucking hunger that Kirk awakened in him would surely consume him if Kirk took all he was and shifted away. Kirk was tense, muscles locked to fight or fly, and Spock realized that he was just as unnaturally still.

Then Kirk twisted his head a little, brushed his mouth along Spock's collarbone, and Spock bit his lip bloody before he noticed that Kirk was talking, muttering faint vibrations into his collarbone.

"I watched you die three times this week."

Spock's heart broke a little for his friend.

"I am not leaving, Jim. Sleep."

Kirk huffed. "Not goin' anywhere. Like you could walk another step after today." But he still tightened his grip on Spock's waist, and Spock bit back a smile. The crackling tension softened, and Spock was abruptly conscious of just how exhausted he was.

Spock pressed a soft kiss to the top of Kirk's head and waited for him to fall asleep.


	11. Out of the Sky

_**A/N: **Star Trek belongs to Paramount Viacom, the commas and most of the nice bits of the story belong to the ever-awesome Dizdayn, and the caves are common property of the fandom (A frequently used and most beloved spot to vacation, I've heard). I can't believe I didn't realize I'd put freaking CAVES into a K/S story back when I was plotting. So far that's being stranded on a planet because of an ion storm, mentions of Pon Farr, bonding, and, of course, caves. Not all at the same time, but still, can I have a prize for filling out my cliché bingo card now, please?_

_Inadvertent clichés aside, this chapter was great fun to write. Another bit I'd been looking forwards to for a while; not least because from here on to the end of the story it's pretty much from the ashes to the fire. So, h__ave some gratuitous action with your plot. :)_

* * *

><p><strong>XI. Out of the Sky<strong>

Spock didn't know what time it was when Daelus shook them awake. He was disoriented, and wanted badly to breathe fresh air, but he felt more rested than he had in weeks. Kirk was on his side a few inches away, both their uniform shirts stuffed under his head. He'd be an absolute headache to share covers with, Spock thought wryly. He left Kirk to pull his shirt on and sort himself out. Their lanterns had dimmed quite a bit while they slept; the blue liquid was barely brighter than glow sticks. With Daelus' blessing, Spock added a trickle of water to each lamp. Re-fueled, they shone a little more clearly, though not as much as they had at first.

The combination of rest and the prospect of seeing sky after so long underground gave their group light feet, and it wasn't long before the tunnel began to grow progressively brighter. Daelus made them walk the final stretch in increments so their pupils had time to adjust. Even he couldn't keep Kirk back once the mouth of the passage finally came into view. The captain seemed to shed his weariness like an old coat. He tore along, stopping just at the edge of the cave mouth, and looked around nervously. He cast a quick look over his shoulder at the others and, apparently satisfied, disappeared into the sunlight.

Spock kept close to the rock wall as he emerged. He clung to the lip of the cave mouth with one hand, using his other to shield his eyes from the suns as he tipped his face upwards. Arcas and Callisto had moved considerably, and Spock calculated their positions to calibrate his internal clock. It was like solving an equation that had been nagging him for days. Everything snapped into focus and resumed its natural rhythm.

Kirk all but skipped across the ledge to join him and Daelus. He was grinning madly, and his teeth were preternaturally white against the grayish-red layer of dust and mud caking his skin. His hair stuck out in irregular tufts, fanning into a crest where he had slept on it. His clothes were torn, and save for his obvious glee at being outside, he looked like nothing more than someone who slept in a shuttleyard with a bottle of saurian for company. Judging by the smile Kirk stifled when Spock patted down his hair and straightened out the remnants of his shirts, he wasn't much better off himself.

"Rakish," Kirk muttered under his breath, and then, out loud: "I can see why you moved outside. Better ventilation out here. It's my turn to fly now, isn't it?"

Daelus gathered the packs and stowed them with a dignified air. "Very slowly," he said. "Following the map-thread. Proximately to Aegle, I'll overwrite you."

Kirk nodded eagerly. "Of course."

Spock felt like his knees were threatening to give out. "Captain?" he ventured.

Kirk turned to face him, and a rapid flicker of emotions chased across his face: happiness first, curiosity, worry, realization and disappointment. Briefly, Spock considered shaking his head, saying 'never mind' and leaping into the cockpit with some glib one-liner to convince Kirk that he was fine, thank you very much.

"Daelus," Kirk said. "I think maybe we'll leave the experimentation for another time."

Daelus frowned, puzzled, then realization dawned. "Self-evidently. I'll black the lion's bits and pieces of the crystal."

"I-" Spock folded his hands behind his back, considering. This was a very bad idea. "The flight mechanisms seem straightforward. Often, if one is unfamiliar with a craft, one is very careful. Newly graduated Starfleet pilots are often the slowest." _At least until they disengage the inertial dampeners_, he added in his head. "I will enter a healing trance during the flight. Do not concern yourselves on my behalf."

The comment had only the barest traces of logic to hold it together, but Kirk smiled at him anyway, eyes lighting up in the way that made the rest of the world dull in comparison. Kirk was decent at captivating people when he tried. When he was sincere, he was radiant.

"Are you sure? I don't mind, Spock, really. I have a ship of my own."

"I will need five minutes to prepare myself for the journey." Spock bit his teeth together, and walked across to the spore. Copying Daelus' earlier gesture, he felt along the edge of the windshield. His hands found a faint ridge, and he hooked his fingertips into it and gave a quick yank. There was a minuscule flutter against them, like a spark of electricity, and the cockpit opened. Before he could regret it, he hoisted himself into the middle seat and strapped himself in.

"Perhaps," he said, unable to prevent traces of nerves from leaking into his voice. "You would care to instruct Captain Kirk as to the location of the safety equipment and stabilizers while I meditate."

Daelus hummed. "Yes, yes."

The Phaetan launched into a detailed description of the more advanced functions of the spore, and Spock could hear the sound of someone rummaging around in the seat in front of him as he gradually disengaged himself from reality. He had gone into a healing trance several times before. New lifeforms and boldly going meant a lot of new and unexpected ways of getting hurt. The trance required some control over both body and mind. It wasn't much good when you were actively dying - such as the time with the halberd - or when you were out of your head with fear. However, it excelled at speeding up the natural healing rate of the body. In addition to this, pre-Surak warriors had utilized it as a way to withstand torture. It effectively separated the mind from the processes of the body, to a degree controlled by the warrior. If escape or rescue was impossible, the warrior would shut down their heart rather than face dishonor.

Spock kept himself from falling too deeply. He hovered just below the surface of his consciousness, monitoring his vitals. Fragments of sound and sensation reached him from above muted, as through water. He had no sense of direction. He simply waited.

After a while, there was a faint stirring in the world, and the sensation of hovering increased.

It wasn't so bad.

Tentatively, he put his ear to the surface, and he could hear Jim's voice, even though it was muffled.

"How does it...? It's like it can read my mind." A brief slide, a jolt, and Jim was laughing, breathless and delighted. He sounded absolutely carefree, and in his limbo, Spock smiled. You couldn't hear laughter like that and not feel lighter somehow.

"I don't get how you ever get yourself out of this thing. Seriously, if I had one of these, Spock would have to drag me out by my ankles whenever anyone wanted to talk to me. Maybe sedate me."

Jim rambled, and Daelus would make interspersed comments whenever Jim paused to inhale before continuing off on a tangent. Then Jim just flew and hummed to himself. Spock recognized the Top Gun theme song from the time Sulu had gotten Ferengi pox, and Jim had piloted the ship for a shift. Disassociation was pleasant. With a brief effort, Spock checked on the scrapes on his knees and elbows. They were scabbing over nicely. He dozed a bit, drifted, and everything was the pleasant blue-black of his katra, like a blueberry's skin or the night sky. Spock imagined stars on the expanse of it, with lines marking their movements for clarity, and little labels with both their relative and absolute order of magnitude. Between Alam'ak and Behr'ak he added a tiny speck of luminescence for Vulcan. It couldn't be seen from Earth even when it still existed, but the point was that he knew it'd been there. It'd left a mark. If Ambassador Spock had gone back and led to the destruction of Vulcan before Spock had been born so that Spock would never have seen his home planet, he would never have forgiven his other self.

Pursuing that line of thought, it wasn't so pleasant in his head. He wondered if the black hole where Vulcan used to be physically slipped under his shields and that was what pulled him in, not his emotions.

Ah. There was Jim's voice again. It was like a fishhook, sinking in to his thoughts and drawing him back towards reality.

"Daelus? The radar's acting odd. It's fuzzy." Spock could hear the frown in Jim's voice, and mentally added a few lines on his forehead to go with the image.

Daelus muttered something under his breath in Phaetan. The phrasing was uncertain, but the intent was clear. It sounded like one of Nyota's sharp words, the ones she used when everything malfunctioned, and for which she would gut anyone else for using within Chekov's range of hearing.

"Why is the fuzz moving towards us?"

No reply.

Then, Jim again, just as sharp as Daelus had been: "What is it, Daelus? It's moving twice as fast as we are. Daelus!"

"They're rare as snowballs in hell," the Phaetan moaned. "I double-cross checked before we flew. It must have formed while we were in the earthcut."

"Just answer the goddamn question!"

"Thunderstorm. I'm overwriting, now..." Daelus twitched, and things sped up exponentially.

That was bad, Spock remembered. He'd read about storms on Phaeton. The data was in there somewhere. Keeping one ear tuned to the voices, he began groping around in the dark for the relevant information.

"We aren't grounded. It can't hurt us. Right?"

There! His mind spit out the answer to Jim's question per reflex. _Not unless the manipulated magnetic field can be destroyed locally by powerful electrical surges_, Spock thought, _as would be logical._

Daelus didn't answer. Apparently, that was all Jim needed to know.

"Ok - so, we land. Wait out the storm."

Daelus' voice was strained. "Lasts for hours and hours. We'll icicle when the suns drop." When he continued, it was in the tone of someone talking to themselves, ticking off on a list. "No landing. No flip-flopping around it. Magnet's field -"

"Spock said Aegle had a protective dome. Can we make it there?"

"Wind's too fast." Daelus said. "We are a kite. I've failed."

"Failed?"

"The Marin said to make sure you stayed alive." Someone was tapping rapidly onto a screen. "Epia said to make sure I stayed alive. I'm a superlative Touch. I will try."

"Damn right you will. How can I help?" The sound of Jim twisting in his seat, and then an awestruck; "oh, shit."

If there were any more sounds, they were drowned out by the growing roar of the wind.

Even partially separated from his body, the ensuing jolt shook Spock to his bones. There was a brief window; a moment where he felt both the peace of the submerged world in his head and the pandemonium raging around him. There was his nightmare; suspended in a hostile sky, waiting to fall and crash. He could already feel tendrils of gravity reaching out for him, ready to drag him down, down-

"Don't wake Spock," Jim commanded. "It'd be cruel."

-down, stretching the line Jim's fishhook voice connected to almost to the breaking point. It was very easy. If he just waited a bit, it would all go away, and he wouldn't have to make any choices at all.

He wondered if Jim would wear the same expression of surprise and panic his mother had when she died.

He wondered if this was his Kobayashi Maru: courage in the face of fear, courage in the face of death. He wished he had an apple.

Spock took a deep breath, and surfaced.

The world drowned in noise. It had been loud before; now it was deafening. The storm howled and battered at the spore like a tortured beast. Sand scraped along the windshield and wings, and the aircraft shook so hard that Spock's teeth chattered reflexively. It was instantaneous and terrifying, like walking out of your front door and directly onto a battlefield.

"The magnetic field is severely weakened above the clouds." Spock gasped it out as quickly as he could. He kept his eyelids pressed shut with enough force that green spots danced before his vision. "We would have minimal control - and even that high, the wind would be strong enough to destroy the craft should we err."

Kirk's heartbeat increased a fraction, and Spock seized on to it with the determination of a drowning man grasping a lifebuoy. _Don't think!_ He held Kirk's and Daelus' vitals clear in his head and began calculating the tensile strength of the different components of the spore. _There is a storm howling, but you cannot hear it_.

"No false moves, then." You could have lit a furnace with the warmth in Kirk's tone. The bond echoed with it - and Spock decided to let it be. He needed all the help he could get. "Glad you decided to join us, Spock."

"It is our only option," Daelus agreed. He snipped his mouth closed over the end of the sentence, distracted by a sudden gust of wind. The spore was propelled sideways, and Spock hoped that Kirk had strapped himself in properly this time. He tried to keep a hold of his composure. If he couldn't calculate the tensile strength of the spore, there was no way he could calculate the pressure it could stand before shaking itself to pieces. There was an unearthly groan. Daelus swore, and the spore tilted then shot upwards at an almost ninety-degree angle. The shock forced Spock's eyes open.

It was simultaneously worse and better than he'd expected. He couldn't see the ground, thank Surak, but neither could he see any chance of salvation. The cockpit was dark. Outside, a blue-black maelstrom of clouds and dust whirled. The spore was completely clear, and Spock could see the storm reaching up beneath him, licking swirls of sand across the crystal hull. They were enveloped; now, they would be crushed.

"Stabilize us!" Daelus yelled at Kirk.

"On it."

Spock caught a brief glimpse of Kirk reflected in the windshield, pale-faced and grim.

Then the lightning began.

There was a flash of pale pink, casting Kirk's silhouette into sharp relief, and a brief suspended moment. The following _crack_ was a sharp stab to Spock's ears, superhuman Vulcan hearing telling him nothing, but that it was close, and that it _hurt_. Spock dug his fingers into the edges of his seat. Heartbeats, heartbeats - he needed to be able to hear them. He couldn't afford to think of anything that couldn't be counted, measured, or calculated. Daelus kept them moving upwards, though they jumped and dodged, trying to avoid the lightning. Flashes of pink burst continuously. _Lightning strikes up, not down_, Spock thought. _Because of the - the charges - the particles moving against each other in the clouds_ - That wasn't what it looked like. The lightning struck up, but the light struck down, falling in sharply-angled rivers, tearing the air asunder with each bend.

"Turn!" yelled Kirk. The spore flipped into a corkscrew. There was a flash, and a hiss. For a moment Spock was blinded by light as a bolt of lightning narrowly missed them. Daelus tried to get the plane under control at the same time Kirk did, and they overcompensated, leaning 34,2 inches too far to the left. A gust of wind caught the rear of the spore, and forced them into a tailspin. The roar grew.

Spock focused on the cold crystal beneath his feet and fingers. This was a thousand times worse than their run through Aegle. His vision blurred, and he bit the inside of his cheek. Kirk's heart was beating 1.7 times its usual speed.

The next bolt of lightning hit the rear of the craft, and for one terrifying moment, his heart stopped altogether.

A shower of sparks exploded from the screens. Someone screamed, inhuman and loud, and Spock tasted copper. Panicked, he scrabbled at his harness.

"Jim!"

Spock reached forward and grabbed Jim roughly by the shoulder. The captain flopped backwards, limp as a doll. Ignoring the ringing in his ears, Spock poured his consciousness into the bond between them, looking for thoughts, a heartbeat, anything.

He could feel the breath in his lungs - his lungs? His thready heartbeat and a jolting pain where his palms had been pressed to the screen -

"Spock?" Jim asked, dazed. "Spock? Daelus?"

"Captain." Spock's voice was hoarse. Daelus didn't answer.

"Daelus! Is he alive, Spock?"

Spock listened. His left ear was still ringing, and his right felt like it had been stuffed with cotton. Something hot trickled past his earlobe and down the side of his neck.

"Jim, get us out. We need to get out of this storm."

Kirk swore. "I know that. My screen isn't responding."

There was a momentary pause, and the Spore twisted on itself as the winds dragged it every which way. The shaking intensified. _Nothing beyond the borders of your presence. There is no storm outside, no sky and no earth, just you, Spock! Just you_. He couldn't do it. He was going to get them all killed. Just like he'd failed his mother. _Help me, Jim_. Spock reached for the bond, relishing the familiar glow, before dragging the end of it out beyond his mental barriers. Unshielded, Jim's fear and determination were vivid, eclipsing his own panic. How long had it been since he'd allowed himself to feel something completely? He sent up a silent prayer that Jim would be able to keep himself together well enough for both of them.

Tentatively, Spock slid his fingers into the brackets on his own screen. The metal tightened around them automatically. He choked back a gasp as the residual electrical charge ran through his hypersensitive nerve endings, burning his hands. Then - nothing. The screen was dead as well.

There was a hair-fine crack where the screen was attached to Jim's seat. Leverage.

Spock tore the Starfleet insignia off his chest, and rammed the point of it into the crack. He twisted it, lifting off the screen. The wires behind it were a burn tangle. Spock began twisting them in loops to circumvent the burn sections as fast as his damaged hands could move.

"Hurry up!"

Ignoring Jim, he jammed the screen back into place. It responded to his fingers with soft warmth. Spock tilted it backwards as far as it would go. Up, out of the storm.

The spore groaned, and emitted an ugly snapping sound before tilting wildly.

"Shit!" Jim said. "Fly properly, Spock!"

"Perhaps you should -"

"I can't move back -"

Spock saw a flash out of the corner of his eye and instinctively threw the plane to the right.

"Good. Now get us out!" Jim was yelling, adrenaline and fear making his voice wild. The desperation thrummed along the bond, making Spock's hands shake. He wasn't used to this. He couldn't think, not with every nerve in his body humming along to Jim's emotions.

Spock shoved at the bond and tried to see the patterns of wind and lightning. There had to be a predictable order to the updrafts, the sparks. They were variables in an equation. His earlier error had broken something inherent to their stabilization, and it made a difficult task nearer to impossible. The storm was too fast, too random. Every time Spock reacted to a calculated variable, some other factor destroyed the maneuver and sucked them further into the eye of the storm. He couldn't contain it all not with Jim all but shouting emotions at him. He was dodging lightning by tenths of seconds. One bolt singed the side of the spore, leaving a sooty, black trail in its wake.

"Use your insignia to open up your screen. You can circumvent the damaged circuits and restore power," Spock yelled.

"I'm trying," Jim snapped. "Its-" A metallic tearing cut him off, and Spock glanced to his right. The stabilizer had dislodged itself completely. He couldn't predict their movements. He was helpless. He could feel Jim's eyes on him in the windshield, bright and blue as twin flames. There was no place for emotion in this. Jim would die, but Spock would have done all he could, and he would die trying to save him - there was no shame or guilt in that. No-one could survive the Kobayashi Maru; that wasn't the point.

Still, Spock gritted his teeth to force back his anger at the unfairness of it all, the wasted potential of what was and could be - if only he were Jim, if only there were some way to cheat the system, change the parameters -

His hands froze on the screen. He couldn't pilot a Spore very well. He didn't have the gift of flight, that odd mixture of intuition and practice required to read the winds.

But Jim did.

Spock looked up to meet Jim's eyes. "I am sorry," he mouthed. For the second time in minutes, he let his mind rush through the bond connecting it to Kirk's. Tendrils of golden light wrapped around him, welcoming him deeper. Spock's katra wove outwards to touch the fire, changing to a clear, incandescent white wherever it came in contact. He was warm throughout, and whole. Then the ache in his hands came jolting back. He was Jim, and Jim was him, and throughout his consciousness, Spock blazed red and golden emotion. He couldn't contain it; it was too much, too fast - anger, determination, love, fear, exhaustion, hurt - and he wanted to block them out from the sheer pain of it.

Trying to fly the Spore by drawing on Jim's instincts might not have been the best idea. It was a bit like trying to illuminate a room by holding up a handful of glowing coals - yes, it gave you light to see by, but the agony was too distracting for you to notice anything else.

Jim moaned, and his head lolled to the side.

"The hell? - Spock, what are you -?"

_Meditate!_ Spock mentally howled at him. _Control yourself. Center yourself. There is nothing beyond the border of your presence - nothing for you to react to, nothing for you to feel anything about. Kadiith. What is, is._

_I'm fucking trying, aren't I?_ Jim snapped back. A brief stab of surprise echoed through them. _Oh. Center myself. Got it. Not thinking about anything, not thinking about anything -_

Even as Spock felt the barriers he'd painstakingly constructed to keep his emotions in check crumble, he struggled to keep the walls in place that separated Jim's thoughts from his own. Emotions and specifically broadcast communication was one thing, the raw thought process another. Spock blinked, trying to clear the fuzzy images running through Jim's head from his vision and was surprised to find water leaking from his eyes. How could humans bear this, day after day? Was everything always this sharp and alive?

The screen hummed under Spock's fingers. He had to - oh, Surak - he had to get them out of the storm. He tried to measure the angle needed to get them above the clouds while intersecting with the least possible disturbances, but he couldn't contain and isolate the equation. A wind buffered them from behind. Logic dictated he tilt back the spore, compensate for the unequal force, but Jim's reactions drove him up. He looped into the gust, riding it forwards. It was a fierce and wonderful feeling. He reacted to the storm as quickly as it changed, moving as part of it. It was touch and go, every second, and Spock was immeasurably grateful for his Vulcan reflexes.

Jim was at the back of his head, humming to himself, and listing off crewmembers. Even so, his elation sang along every inch of the bond. Spock could barely hear their individual heartbeats over the roaring in his functional ear, and he knew his blood was thick with adrenaline. Around him, the clouds blurred into one another.

_Read them_, Jim commanded._ See that big lump of -_

_- cumulonimbus -_

_- yes, that, see how it moves, means there's a gust of wind there -_

_- like injecting dye into a closed model of water currents to see where they lead -_

_- exactly! Drop, Spock, now._

A massive front charged them head on, and Spock dove a few yards, only to sweep upwards at the next wind. He twisted up a winding spiral, and unexpectedly, they fell over the crest of the clouds into blinding sunlight.

Spock blinked at the sudden brilliance, turning away his head from the twin suns. He caught a brief glimpse of Daelus, limp against the side of the spore. Everything about the Phaetan was lifeless; he'd lost his own personal battle with gravity. His jaw and shoulders hung, his spine curved gracelessly downwards and his shoulders slumped. Even his blood ran towards the centre of the planet - it trickled out of his nose and ears in thin lilac streams and dripped onto the floor.

"We can't do much for him now," Jim said. Spock realized he must have broadcast the image accidentally._ I think maybe I can figure out how to darken the crystal a bit so you can see_. There was no indication Jim had noticed he'd swapped methods of communication between sentences.

Spock focused on flying. The spore had slowed to what felt like a crawl. As suspected, the magnetic field was severely weakened above the clouds. It was all Spock could do to maintain a steady course with the wind at an angle.

"Do not concern yourself overmuch. My eyes are adapted to desert planets. Focus on navigation. And Jim - _Surak_, control yourself!" Jim's side of the bond flared up like a beacon at Spock's voice, drowning him in a wave of relief. _We made it! We're all right! Spock - that was amazing - I can feel you, in my head - I can sort of... Smell you. Taste you. You're like incense and Academy auditoriums and vanilla and theris-whatever the fuck you call it and none of those things, but all of them at the same time -_

Spock withdrew as far as he could manage without submerging himself in his katra - he couldn't afford to lose concentration. Jim did not have the sixth sense required to accurately interpret psychic phenomena without a full bond to facilitate it, so he interpreted Spock's mind with the senses he was given. He would have a terrible headache later, Spock knew. Thankfully, Jim's thoughts receded slightly, occupied with whatever he was doing with his screen. Outside the spore, harmless-looking tufts of cloud drifted by, and Spock wondered how they could conceal something so deadly below them with such ridiculous ease.

Concentrating on keeping the spore on an even keel was hard, even without Jim's endorphins still on an unbridled rampage through Spock's veins. Spock kept getting distracted by small things; a pretty color, the way Jim's heartbeat was even, memories of the Academy or Vulcan. He couldn't focus on any one thing before the next wave of emotion swept it away, bringing a fresh tide of sensations. Just above the horizon, the sky was a deep cornflower blue - it looked like the summer sky over Iowa, and tasted like raspberry popsicles. His skin was nut brown from a mixture of sun and dust, except for a collection of scars and scabs on his knees. The scabs were from baseball, the scars - most of them - were from a tumble down a cliff side, long ago on another planet. He'd been dizzy and weak from hunger, too foolish to watch where he set his feet -

Spock bit his lip hard, using the sharp spike of pain to center himself in his own body.

After a while - the seconds had grown fuzzy again, and susceptible to human conceptions of whether a certain period of time felt long or short, rather than what it actually was - Jim straightened in his seat.

"Got it." The thin colored line faded into view on the windshield, reaching off into the distance. "This is the one Daelus had already coded in to the memory - it should go from Aegle to the canyon." Jim craned his neck, attempting to get a better view of the cloud landscape. "Which direction to you think Aegle's in?"

Spock looked up, and attempted to triangulate their position based on the suns. Then he swerved off to the right. They'd been fortunate; even though the storm had blown them off course, the prevailing winds had led them a good deal closer to their destination than Spock had hoped. It wasn't long before the guiding line dropped below the clouds. Spock guessed they must be directly above the city.

Do you think we should wait it out up here? Jim asked. "It seems a bit safer. What do these things use for fuel?"

Spock shook his head. "Storms can last for hours. I do not think fuel is a concern, but Daelus cannot afford to wait that long."

"He's alive?"

"I cannot adequately ascertain his status at the moment."

_That settles it, then_. In his mind, Spock felt Jim reach out for him. _Once more into the breach?_

Spock twined his thoughts firmly with Jim's, allowing the faith he had in the other man's abilities to shine through. Then he gritted his teeth and dove. They were plunged into darkness and chaos, and all Spock could think to do was to keep them falling downwards. Jim was blazing again, keeping the choking panic threatening to envelop him at bay. Spock was blinded by the tangled rope of indigo and red-gold threatening to sink hooks so deep into his soul he'd never get them out, but that was alright; Jim had eyes to see with, so Spock flew by those. It was through Jim's eyes he realized they had broken into clear air, and were weaving amongst the spires of the city.

Aegle was covered by a completely transparent dome, and outside the storm was pressing in on all sides. Raindrops fell unhindered through the barrier, thick and fast, but the wind abated. Lightning struck certain points of the dome again and again. They collided with a crack and spread across the surface of the barrier in sunbursts of pink light. They ducked under a low hanging bridge as Spock managed to straighten out the course of the spore to glide along parallel to the colored line. He recognized the courtyard they'd launched from earlier and tilted them down for landing. The spore touched down with a nasty, grating sound. They were going much too fast and were too desperate for solid ground to care. Sparks trailed behind them as the spore slid along the stones to collide heavily with a pillar. There was a resounding crack, and they were finally still. Spock moaned and rested his head against the screen in front of him. Raindrops were hammering down on the cockpit. From the corner of his eye, he could make out blurry figures running towards them. He had seconds before they reached the spore.

Spock snapped open his harness and reached forward to touch Jim's temples. Jim was dazed by the impact and leaned into Spock's hands. There was a gash along his scalp - Spock couldn't tell how bad - and his hair was matted and clumped with blood and filth. Spock shut his eyes and willed the golden fire from his mind. The bond glowed iridescent as he untangled what he could, shoving Jim's katra back along their connection to where it belonged. The damage was already done. Their tentative, gossamer-thin connection had taken root, and while not a consummated mating bond, it would take out a sizable chunk of Spock's katra when severed. Jim inhaled sharply at the intrusion, his eyelids flickering, and Spock couldn't bring himself to regret what he'd done; they were both alive. Still, he kept going, hunting down every stray thread of gold and forcing it into Jim. After the rush of unrestrained emotion, regaining control was like watching the world fade into shades of gray. As the last of the fire faded, Spock tightened his grip on Jim's face involuntarily. Jim was watching him with the disorientation of someone on the verge of passing out. His eyelids were heavy, and his breaths grew deeper and slower as he slumped in his seat. The dusting of stubble on his cheeks scraped against Spock's palm as he moved, and Spock bit down on his lip to swallow a moan.

"S'fine, Spock," Jim mumbled. "Did good. Sleep a bit." He raised one hand to brush against Spock's. They had touched hands before, but this was the first time Spock felt it: desire, completion and love- so much of it, humming through his fingers as though a circuit had been closed somewhere. His mental barriers were razed to splinters, and the spike of emotion ran straight into his blood.

Spock let his hands drop, let his head loll onto his shoulder, and tried to convince himself that this wasn't a complete shambles.


	12. In Absence

**_A/N: _**_Not mine, don't sue, all hail Paramount Viacom and Roddenberry._

_So, you know that feeling where you embark on a project and at first you're all 'I can totally do this! I have a schedule, which I will keep to! Piece of cake!' and then life mugs you and you wake up an an alley somewhere with no wallet and one of those sparkly party hats on your head and no idea where the past month went?_

_No?_

_Erm. Anyway._

_I'm sorry about the delay between this chapter and the last. November has been crazy for a multitude of (mostly good) reasons, but it meant very little time for this story. I'm (hopefully, knock on wood) back on track now, and should be slightly more consistent now. Welcome to the new readers. _

_Thank you to everyone who's commented, offered critique, advice, plot predictions and that one person (yes, you) who wrote me poetry. _

_'Cause... wow._

_You're just... wow._

_Somehow, through an odd quantum incident, I've landed the best readers in the universe, and that makes me happy. /understatement._

_Also thank you to Dizdayn, who continues to offer excellent advice, corrections, help and support. You're amazing. I'll totally lend you my post-mugging party hat whenever you need it._

* * *

><p><strong>XII. In Absence<strong>

"Spock. Spock!" Someone was shaking him. He was cold, and wet, and someone had grabbed him by the shoulders. "Spock, Jim's alright. You can snap out of it. Jim's alright. Spock?"

He tried to focus. He was on a bed. Where had the bed come from? "Bones?"

"Take it easy now. No need to go thrashing about -" McCoy frowned. "Bones?"

"Huh," Spock slurred. "Fascinating. It seems I am having an adverse reaction to the -" McCoy hastily shoved an earthenware basin onto Spock's lap. Spock just wrapped his fingers around the edges of the basin and stared at it blearily. McCoy took Spock by the shoulder and chin and tilted his head up to look into his eyes.

"You pupils are dilated. Jim hasn't been giving you chocolate again, has he?"

It took Spock a few seconds to realize that was a joke. The hearing had returned to his right ear, but the numbness had been replaced with a stabbing pain to complement his headache. His knees and hands were bandaged. The nightmarish crawl through the Centre tunnels seemed a very long time ago.

"Jim is alright?" Spock repeated.

"He's a bit banged up, but he's fine. See?" McCoy pointed to a bed along the adjacent wall. Jim was curled up on his side, obviously sleeping. His chest rose and fell evenly, and someone had washed the blood from his hair and face. Additional beds were lined up between them, all empty. They seemed to be in a hospital of some sort. The floors were clean and white, and there was a muted, antiseptic feel to the room. One wall was comprised entirely of translucent crystal, and outside it was still raining. Spock couldn't have been unconscious for long.

McCoy ran a hand through his hair and sighed heavily. "What the hell happened out there? Everyone thought you'd been killed -"

"Daelus. Our guide. How is he?"

The doctor placed a hand on Spock's shoulder. "He's in the next room. He's banged up pretty badly, and he's just been gettin' worse. They're doing all they can for him - I've never seen anyone move so fast in my life as the doctors who patched you three up, and Epia was yelling at them all the while, telling them to do more, to be quicker. Sorel and I've tried to help, but there's not much we can do. Epia finally kicked us out. She's taken it pretty hard. Blames us for his flying in a storm."

Spock bowed his head for a few moments. "And the others? The ambassadors, the ensign?"

"In our tower, keeping an eye on each other." McCoy shrugged. "I figured I'd be more useful waiting for you two to come back from your latest attempt to rack up scars than minding the chicken coop. You see this? Gray hair. I'm a doctor, Spock, not a nursemaid. I told you to be careful, not to come crashing out of nowhere like a goddamn meteorite."

Spock tossed back his blanket and staggered across the room. It took him a few meters for his legs to remember the mechanics of walking. By the time he reached the door, his knees had stopped buckling, and he started off across a low bridge without incident. He didn't notice his Starfleet uniform had been replaced with a long Phaetan tunic and thick brown pants before the cloth started sucking up water like a sponge. He'd forgotten how heavy regular cloth got when wet.

"Hey!" McCoy came splashing after him, indignance obvious in his voice. "You're hurt, you fool, you'll catch pneumonia." He caught on to Spock's arm and twisted him around to face him. "Hey," he repeated.

"Are you sure Jim is healthy? Have you spoken to him?"

McCoy frowned. "He was barely conscious when we found him. He woke up a bit once we got him onto a stretcher. He's a god-awful patient, though - he kept telling the medical crew to - and I quote - 'Leave me alone, I'm great. Where's Spock?' Between the two of you, it'll be a wonder if anyone manages to get the right picture of Starfleet."

"Oh." Spock closed his eyes in relief. Jim was fine. They were fine. The events of the past few days rushed him all at once, and Spock sat down in a puddle of water, too tired to keep on his feet. Every inch of him was aching, and he couldn't process it - couldn't think - he had no shields. To his surprise, McCoy sat down next to him, ignoring the cold water soaking through his uniform.

"The next time you and Jim decide to take a field trip, check the damn weather report."

Spock didn't answer just pinched the bridge of his nose in an attempt to alleviate his migraine. His bond with Jim was throbbing in the back of his mind, raw from the hasty withdrawal after their landing. It was difficult to go from so much mental closeness, from being one with another, intertwined, to nothing. Spock wanted desperately to return to the hospital and curl up besides Jim.

McCoy threw Spock a shrewd, sidelong glance. "You've been messing with his head again, haven't you?" It wasn't a question; it was a statement of fact, and Spock got the impression that if he tried to deny it McCoy would dangle him from the bridge by the tips of his ears until he secured a confession.

"It was an emergency."

"I'm sure."

"I estimated that the Captain would prefer a temporary hormonal imbalance to a permanent lack of vitals."

McCoy narrowed has eyes, and Spock studied the cobblestones beneath them more intently.

"So, what happened to you?" McCoy asked.

"I preferred the temporary hormonal imbalance as well. It was the logical course of action."

"But what happened to you?"

Shakily, Spock stood. "Logic."

McCoy grabbed his wrist to prevent him from leaving. "Bullshit. You were shaking like a leaf when we found you. Something happened, and it wasn't just some insane attempt to save your collective asses."

Spock wished he could just walk away, but he couldn't dismiss the concern in McCoy's expression. Jim was the doctor's oldest friend. If Jim had almost died, McCoy deserved an explanation. Besides, McCoy had saved Spock's life several times over. He'd trusted him with Jim's life. And he'd followed Spock out into the rain and stayed with him because he cared about him.

Spock worried about a lot of people. The bridge crew were, excepting himself, human. They were fragile and psychically defenseless. The science department on the Enterprise was used to conducting experiments in safe environments; they weren't prepared for the plant they were analyzing to suddenly decide it wanted blueshirt steak. The remaining Vulcans were struggling just to stay alive, let alone rebuild all they'd lost. Very few people worried about Spock in return; his father, Nyota, Jim - McCoy. Concern was a rare gift; the least he could do was to accept it with gratitude.

"I - borrowed - the Captain's instincts to fly us out of the storm. I underestimated what it would to do to our respective psyches. The damage is not permanent."

"You -" McCoy looked as though he was had been expecting something quite different. "You borrowed Jim's instincts?"

"His human emotions, thought patterns. I was too bound by calculation and reasoning to commandeer the Spore to the full extent of its capacity."

"You mind-melded with Jim."

Spock nodded. It went deeper than that, but that was the core of the issue.

"Well, dammit," McCoy swore. "And?"

Spock struggled to find the words. "It was - painful. A terrible breach of the Captain's privacy. And I was unprepared for the channeling of such emotions. I had not imagined they would be so intense."

"Jim's feelings for you." McCoy said gently. "You're smart. You probably knew already."

"He cares too much for us all. He has a great capacity for both joy and sorrow."

"So that's it? You're scared? Spock, how do you think it is for him? You took one look in his head and now you're running away."

Spock swallowed down his frustration. "No, not running. I simply need time. My shields are not adequate. I cannot control my emotions - you do not understand, I must control them -"

"Why?"

_Because every time I fail to control myself, I make things worse_. "At present, we do not have the luxury of allowing our emotions to dictate our actions. We are trapped on a planet that has proven hostile."

"Jim's hurt now, and he deserves the explanation you just gave me. He can't wait until you finally get your head together. Either stay with him while he needs you, or stay away altogether."

Spock bowed his head. "I require meditation."

McCoy stood before Spock, equal parts pity and disappointment in his expression. Then he said, in a slightly choked voice. "I thought maybe the kid was right about you. Thought maybe you'd be different than the usual bastards he'd... Goddamn it, Spock, I care about him. He's been through enough." He ran a hand through his hair, angry beyond even scowling. "Don't bother comin' back around. I'll make sure Jim's fine."

* * *

><p>Spock spent the night in his quarters meditating. Around two in the morning, the candles of the <em>yel-halek-kuv<em> burned out, and the room was dark. Spock did not move.

* * *

><p>A katra was as unique as the person carrying it. When an entity was born, their katra was nothing but a wisp of smoke carrying basic needs; food, liquid, sleep, affection, a hint of what the entity might become. When Spock was born, his katra had been the clear azure of the summer sky. It hadn't been a pleasant surprise. Blue was a very common color amongst humans, who tended towards light, cheerful hues. His mother's katra was daffodil yellow, and when he got older, Spock was illogically grateful he hadn't inherited that aspect of her. Proper Vulcans had subtle katras; maroon, dark gray, or completely black like his father's. When Spock began to come into his Vulcan heritage, his katra reflected that. He was his choices, and he chose Vulcan. It seemed very simple at the time.<p>

As their carrier matured, so did the katra. Spock had met people who could barely contain their presence, people who gave and gave and gave of themselves and yet never seemed to run dry, and people who locked their katra tight within and kept it safe, unbroken. Where the body carried physical scars, the katra carried mental ones - pockmarks and pinpricks that inched below the surface and festered in the wounds they left. Spock had a row of them that had once been constantly raw and inflamed - tiny needlepricks accumulated over two decades.

Your mother is human. Humans cannot control their emotions; they let their emotions control them. They are little better than animals. Bastard child. Such trouble your parents had conceiving, one would almost think nature itself was set against your existence. Child of a traitor. Child of a whore.

When he was four, Spock'd broken his wrist on a self-declared, rock-hunting expedition. His mother had held him all the way to the healers and kissed his forehead when he cried.

His father had borne it with a grimace and told her to keep her emotions to herself in the future.

Spock could have taken any amount of abuse from his classmates, but once his father told him emotions were shameful - his beautiful mother was shameful- the damage was done. There was a crack of self-doubt that let the insults worm their way to his core. Over time, Spock learned to guard that particular chink in his armor.

Now, it was a faint, smooth discoloring on his katra, no longer sore. There were others to take its place: M'Lin, a thick knot of guilt; Kirk and the Phaetan at the banquet, both of whom he'd almost choked to death in a blind rage; going against Kirk's orders to leave the planet; taking advantage of their bond because he was too frightened to pilot the spore adequately on his own. And there was bond itself, like a missing tooth or a healing bone fracture. It ached to the touch, but Spock couldn't help it; he needed to examine it, needed the light it gave.

He'd been ashamed of his mother for so many years and through her, himself. When his father absolved him of his love and grief after Vulcan, it had healed some old wounds and doubts and opened him to many, many new ones. Suddenly, there were shades of gray. He'd lived in a black-and-white world for so long he didn't know how to tell things apart anymore. He didn't know anything.

When there was a knock at the door, Spock opened his eyes. For a moment, he thought he was still deep in meditation. After the storm, the air was as thick and golden as syrup, completely suffused with sunlight. Callisto and Arcas were both high in the sky, and water was rising from the desert sands in rolling clouds of mist. The base of the city was completely obscured by the fog, and the spires looked like jagged cliffs rising from a diaphanous sea.

The next knock was more of a slap. Apparently whoever was waiting outside was getting impatient and was smacking the door with an open palm to make as much noise as possible.

"Spock, let me in. We need to talk."

Kirk. Spock got to his feet rather reluctantly. He would happily crawl back to the Centre on his hands and knees if it meant putting off facing Kirk for a while longer.

Slap, slap, slap, wham.

"Spock! I know you're in there! Sorel saw you go in!"

Spock twisted the lock and opened the door a hair. Kirk shoved a hand into the crack and wrenched the door open. He looked like the time he'd prepared Spock_ theris-masu_; ruffled, annoyed and dazed, as if someone had taken the blunt end of a lirpa to the back of his head.

"You ran out on me," he said.

Spock held the door open for him. To Spock's surprise, Kirk didn't immediately flop onto whatever furniture was present and make himself at home. Instead, he paced to the balcony, turned around as if to say something, then paced back.

"Shut the door," said Kirk.

Warily, Spock complied.

"So, you got in my head."

Spock folded his hands neatly behind his back. "I deemed it crucial for our survival. I am, however, sorry for any-"

Kirk took a step forward, well into Spock's personal space. "No. You don't get to do that. You waived your right to avoid me when you got inside my head."

"It was the only way to survive."

Another step and this time Spock backed away until he could feel the wall behind him. This was not Jim facing him, this was Captain Kirk confronting a problem and enemy.

"What did you find in there?" Kirk swallowed, licked his lower lip, and Spock realized that for all the menace Kirk was exuding, he was probably just as terrified as Spock was. It was immensely comforting.

Spock hesitated.

"Just say it."

"You love me." Spock deliberated over the words, making them as close to a scientific statement as he could. _Captain, the my integrity is compromised by the gravitational pull of the nearby singularity, here are the numbers, please be logical_. Kirk wasn't backing down. His chest was almost flush against Spock's, close enough that a single deep breath would brush them together. His head was tilted up, just a little, and his eyes were very wide; blue and deep enough to drown a man. Still, the part of his brain dedicated to cataloguing the minutiae of Jim was caught up on the way Kirk was throwing flickering glances at the window, the door. There was a fine draw to his nose and brows, like he was struggling with a particularly troubling problem, and he seemed oddly distanced.

He spoke with faint detachment; as though he was reading aloud from a script. "Again," Jim said.

"You love me."

"Stop saying it like I'm torturing it out of you."

But he was. Spock could feel the heat radiating off Kirk's body in a tangible almost; they were standing on the verge of something, and Spock had the power to push them over the edge if he dared, if he ignored the warning bells going off in his head, and it hurt, hurt, hurt.

"You love me."

In the courtyard after he'd landed the spore, Kirk's mind had all but shouted the truth of it at him; Jim would walk through fire for any of his crew, but for Spock he'd stand in the fire until it had burned him dry, until he was a husk of bones and charred skin, and with his last breath ask for a chance to do it all again. He needed Spock, and Spock needed him, and he'd waited for months hoping against hope for Spock to just turn to him, eyes wide with wonder, and tell him, 'You love me, Jim', and then kiss him absolutely senseless -

"Yeah," Kirk croaked, and all the fight seemed to bleed out of him. He sat on the edge of a chair before his knees gave out. He rubbed his face in his hands. "Yeah, God help me, I do."

"Thank you," Spock said for lack of something better.

Kirk looked up at Spock who was still standing, petrified. "Well, you love me back," he accused.

Spock bowed his head then settled on the floor next to Kirk's chair, back against the bedpost. "Yes. It cannot be helped, I suspect. Jim -"

But Kirk had already slid to the floor besides him. He held up his hand, index- and middle finger extended. At Spock's surprised expression, Kirk laughed softly. The sound seemed to settle low in Spock's abdomen and he reached for Kirk's hand almost instinctively.

"You're a lot worse at hiding things from me than you think you are," Kirk said. "I feel this too, you know."

Demonstratively, he brushed his fingers along Spock's, exploring the soft skin between Spock's fingers before flipping Spock's hand over and examining his palm, the base of his thumb. It was unlike Kirk; the gesture was slow and tentative, as if Spock were a beast that might be spooked. Despite Kirk's assurance, Spock projected the sensation at him. Intimacy, love, a faint thrill -

Kirk pressed their mouths together with a low moan, fisting one hand in Spock's hair. Kirk's lips were chapped and dry; it was like kissing a pillar of sand. They sat very still, breaths mingling, and Spock was in equal parts satisfied and disappointed. He was picking up very little from Kirk's side of the bond. He was controlling his emotions with some difficulty; the mad hunger Kirk always seemed to arouse in him, and meanwhile Kirk, who never did anything by halves, was indifferent. Spock reached for Kirk's mind, hoping for an answer of some sort; he wasn't the one who'd barged into Kirk's room, demanding humiliating confessions. He knew Kirk, better than anyone; Kirk wouldn't string him along, make him admit to emotions only to throw them back in his face. He wouldn't.

Kirk's mind was bitter as poison. Spock tightened his grip on the back of Kirk's head and parted his lips a breath as though he was able to change Kirk's feelings if he just continued on along the path of how things could be.

Kirk shook off Spock's hand, drew back, and blinked as though he was just waking up. "What's wrong, Spock?"

"Your mind. It's -" Spock was too dazed to catch the contraction. He felt sick. "Are you ill?"

"I'm fine, Spock" Kirk frowned. "You're shutting me out again."

"What?"

Kirk determinately avoided Spock's gaze, focusing at a point somewhere over his shoulder. "You always do this. Whenever we get close, you turn and run. Like you're ashamed of this, of us."

"I am not ashamed. I am... confused."

"No. That's not it. That's not the right word."

"Jim," Spock took Kirk's hands in his. He'd already admitted so much, dug himself so deep there was nothing to do but forge ahead and hope that Kirk would meet him halfway. "Look at me. I was ashamed of my mother for so many years; you cannot comprehend how well-chosen a subject you elected to emotionally compromise me during the Narada crisis. I was ashamed of how human she was, how she laughed when she was happy and cried when she was sad. But most of all, I was ashamed that I loved her because of who - what she was." He squeezed Kirk's hands.

"Emotions are not shameful. If you can control them, they are a gift. After my mother's death, my father told me he married her for love, do you understand? My father had a katra as dark as Surak's, and he loved her. Jim, for a year, I have watched you be selfless and brave to the point of idiocy for love of your crew. How could I possibly perceive emotions to be shameful?"

Kirk was still staring out of the tower; he set his jaw and turned his head. Spock wanted to take him by the chin and force him to meet his eyes.

"You won't let yourself feel," Kirk said. "You scorn emotion. You're as bad as any Vulcan - worse, because you know you love your emotions. You love mine. You were fucking glowing up there in the spore, and you throw it all away because you're scared of some arbitrary rules set down centuries ago."

"We cannot let emotions dictate our actions. Our actions must be dictated by the good of the many. Feelings are a luxury bestowed upon us, and if we let them drive us to bloodshed, anger or selfishness, we are unworthy of that gift."

"You're being selfish right now. I need you to let go of your precious logic and just listen to me."

"I must control my emotions. If I fail, I will bring harm upon myself and those close to me. I do not know - I cannot offer you easy affection, Jim, I am not human. But I do love; whatever else I am, I am yours."

"You're a coward," he said, finally looking at Spock. There was no compassion in his eyes, just blind determination, and Spock wondered if heartbreak was something he could learn to shield away. "I don't know you." Kirk got to his feet, looking around the room as if searching for an escape. "I've got to go. Oh, fuck, this is bad -"

"What is wrong?" Spock reached for Kirk's wrist then drew back. Please, let me in this time; trust me. Tell me. No more secrets, Jim.

Kirk paused, hand on the doorknob. "Don't follow me," he commanded. "You've done enough damage already."

Spock leaned on the wall so heavily his fingers left dents in the rock.

* * *

><p>This wasn't how it was supposed to go.<p>

However bad an idea falling in love with Kirk was, it did have a certain inevitability to it. As a scientist, Spock could appreciate it; set two bodies in orbit around one another. Watch them spin through empty space as you gradually, slowly increase their gravity until they succumb. Hope that what results is one body with a single gravitational point and not a scattered field of rubble. Either way, there was that moment of impact.

Spock felt as though instead of colliding, they'd simply missed each other. That wasn't how it was supposed to go. Spock was scared, of course, terrified; his emotions were more powerful than he cared to know, and he couldn't win every battle. He couldn't always trust himself to do the right, the brave thing.

But he could trust Kirk. And Kirk, despite everything, was his friend. If gravity failed, if the laws of physics unraveled like a ball of yarn and the universe itself turned inside out, Kirk would still be at his side.

Something was deeply, horribly wrong, and if it wasn't Kirk, it was someone - something else.

Spock could have hit himself.

Kirk was being manipulated.

Oh, Surak. He'd had the headaches, he'd been acting irrationally, trying to prevent Spock and McCoy from staying on Phaeton, he'd even been having nightmares of increasing frequency. He'd run through a neat list of every single warning signal in the book. His mind had been warping under the strain of the bond, the rampant telepathic energies of the Phaetans, and the resurfacing memories of Tarsus, and he'd all but screamed it at Spock; his thoughts were polluted and slick, and Spock, fool that he was _had backed off for fear of invading Kirk's privacy_. They were on a planet full of telepaths who could potentially warp Kirk's every thought, and Spock had backed off. He'd failed to protect his bondmate.

He needed to find Kirk, and now. Kirk was coming apart at the seams; he needed help before Kirk's mind shut down for good.

In the antechamber, Yjehar was playing some sort of complicated card game with Morrowith that included multiple decks and draw piles scattered across various pieces of furniture. Kirk was nowhere to be seen, and Spock ignored the casual salute Yjehar flashed his way.

"Ah, Commander," Morrowith began. "We were getting worried about you -"

"He left?" Yjehar guessed. "You're looking for the Cap'n, right? Left 'bout five minutes ago. In a strop, sir. No disrespect intended."

But Spock was already gone. He tore down the stairs three at a time and took a left at the base of the tower, knowing instinctively that Kirk had done the same minutes earlier. Outside, the heat hit him like a slap to the face. The twin suns were baking the city mercilessly, and the air over the courtyard shimmered with heat. Spock was untroubled; he'd grown up with suns hanging low and fat in the sky like apples on the branch. He ran through the winding streets, following Kirk upwards.

And Kirk was moving. The bond still pointed Spock true north, but it also fed him confusing, conflicting sensations and images. Kirk's body was burning up, his breath ragged and uneven as he fled. It was cool and dark aboard the Enterprise, and Kirk ran through its corridors as explosions rocked the ship. There was a small voice at the back of his head whispering: _'You're too late, you're always too late, he's left, he's gone, he's dead. You're alone; you're always alone._' Spock couldn't tell which of them it originated with. He could see Aegle side by side with Tarsus, Vulcan crumbling into the abyss, both under his feet and in the sky above him. Mount Seleya towered in the distance, but he was cut off by a wall of glass, and his skin began to sag and melt off his bones. Spock rubbed frantically at his arms, willing the hallucinations away. His skin felt soft and supple, and the wrinkles began to disappear, only for him to realize it wasn't his skin at all, he was holding Kirk down by his bare shoulders. He had a knee on Kirk's solar plexus, and Kirk was gasping for air beneath him. His eyes were dull with pain. Spock's head resonated with the images streaming through the bond. There were so many ghosts.

Through it all, Spock kept running. If he could only reach Kirk, it would all be fine. Everything would be alright, if only he could find Kirk, and stop him - from what, Spock didn't know, but everything hinged on it. Parted, they were vulnerable. He should have known better than to let Kirk out of his sight; it felt like being back on Niamh, running frantically, hoping he wasn't too late. The suns couldn't reach him through the clouds. Branches whipped at Spock's arms and legs. His feet were sucked down by the mud and every step was a brief battle that pushed his other foot deeper into the ground, making the next step that much harder. Spock shut his eyes against the pelting rain. He used the bond to light his path. It burned like a brand behind his eyelids. Without the hallucinations to distract him, he could separate the golden threads from the ashen-grey. He could separate Kirk from whatever illness was polluting his mind.

When Spock opened his eyes again, the rain was gone. He was standing alone on a narrow road, clutching a pillar for support. The scabs on his hands and knees had broken open, and were crusted with red dust. He wondered when he'd tripped. He wiped his bloody fingers on his trousers and looked around. The street looked familiar. It was part of the tour Crius and Epia had taken them on their first day on the planet. It crossed a tall bridge and a courtyard to wind upwards around a tower - that was Phaeton, Epia had said, always ascending, all the way up through history to touch the sky. There was another courtyard after that, a sloping ramp, a turn and then-

Spock ran.

The high platform where they'd first met Daelus was radiant. The polished white stone reflected the sunlight off the low wall surrounding it. Kirk was standing on top of it, a dark shadow against the sky. His hand was stretched out before him, palm flat against some invisible nothing.

"Jim!" Spock skidded to a halt a few meters away, afraid of startling him.

Kirk didn't react to the shout. He brought his other hand up beside the first, and took a small step towards the edge. Spock jerked forwards reflexively.

"Jim," he said. "Do not move."

Kirk was muttering to himself, his hands caressing the air. He began slamming his palms outwards with increasing desperation. He'd bit through his lip, and a thin trickle of red mixed with the sweat running from his forehead. His legs were shaking from exhaustion and heat. Everything grew sharp; the bitter taste of blood in Spock's mouth, the drop where the wall ended, the sunlight adding shadows and contrast to Kirk- painting him abundantly clear.

Spock's internal clock measured the time in pitiful little gasps and starts. There was a breathless moment when Kirk almost toppled, and Spock felt the bond between them tighten. Then Kirk's legs steadied, and the seconds could pass again. Still, Kirk was hammering at the air. He was panting heavily, his mouth open and twisted. His brows were furrowed together in a look of intense determination.

"Spock," he said. "It's ok. Hold on. I'll get you out of there. Don't worry. I'll get you out. Trust me. Won't you please just hold on?" His voice grew in strength as his assault increased until he was shouting furiously. "You _bastard_. Why are you doing this? You_ promised_. You were supposed to be different. You said you'd never put me through this again. How the fuck am I supposed to go on as if nothing happened? You know what this'll do to me. I hate you. I wish you'd stayed on your fucking shit planet and carved me out of your brain. I wish I could carve you out. I wish I'd never met you!" Kirk ended on a triumphant high note that tailed off into a barely muted whimper. When he spoke again, his voice was soft and wheedling. "I can't, I just can't, please, please Spock, why won't you stay with me? I can be better. I can be brave and strong, like Uhura, would you like that? I can keep you safe. I can be quiet like you, and I'll wait, I'll wait forever, and you won't even notice me if only you'll stay..."

Spock wished that Kirk would shut up.

Kirk didn't sound like that. Not Jim. Spock needed to get to him before heatstroke peeled him off his feet. He could deal with the madness later. The ugly, hurtful madness, oil-slick and insidious, creeping along their bond, poisoning him -

Spock watched the wall beneath Kirk's feet snap crisply off the platform. Flickers of light orbited Jim. There was a brief moment of clarity when their eyes met, then Jim fell and was gone from sight. He slammed against the ground far below with the sound of an egg cracking.

Then he was back on his wall as if nothing had ever happened, perched on the very edge. This time, it happened slowly; the wall crumbled so slowly that if Spock had any mortar, he could have repaired the cracks as they appeared - had he been able to move. The wall crumbled at its base first, tiny fissures merging into jagged cracks running the length of the platform. Dust blew out between the stones in puffs of white.

Spock watched Jim fall again,

and again,

and again.

Jim managed to turn around and reach out for Spock, fingers pointing in silent accusation.

Spock managed to grasp Jim's shirt and was left standing with so much ripped cloth.

They managed to grasp each other's hands, and the sparks spiraled around them both, colliding with their skin in tiny electric jolts. Then Jim fell, his hands slid out of Spock's and Spock felt the bond between them stretch and stretch towards the inevitable breaking point. Spock though his heart might just be ripped clean out of his chest.

He clung to the bond like a drowning man would cling to a plank of wood; like it were a rope that could sustain Jim's weight if only Spock could stand firm. Spock dug in his heels; he couldn't move, or he'd fall over the edge as well. Less than twenty-four hour before, he'd flown, and it'd been as effortless and elating as his and Jim's fingers intertwining. Now he was rooted to the spot. He couldn't use Jim to drown out his fear. Kirk was beyond terror; his mind was burning in the field of wheat on Tarsus, and Spock was dying just out of reach behind the glass wall.

Jim's legs were back to shaking, and Spock shut his eyes for a moment. He took a small step forwards. Somehow, though his mind was showing him Jim dying over and over, reality still managed to punch through all the confusion. Jim was wavering. Spock took another step, and another. He knew how this would go. His mother and M'Lin would be waiting for Jim at the bottom of the drop; Spock would stand at the edge of the cliff, hand outstretched, always just a little late.

And Spock opened his eyes, and ran.

Jim made a lunge at thin air, his foot coming down hard on the edge of the wall. Spock ignored a sharp stab of despair at the way Jim was leaning out over the desert. He was leaning too far; Spock'd never make it.

"_Jim!_" Spock called with his mind as well as his voice, desperate to break through Kirk's psychosis.

The bond flickered briefly in recognition. Jim turned, and for a moment, their eyes met. There was a half-formed word on Jim's lips; Spock thought it might have been his name. Then Jim's foot slipped. He stepped back to compensate, into empty air. Mindlessly, Spock lunged. His fingers caught the front of Jim's tunic. The cloth snapped taut as Jim toppled backwards, and Spock was jerked forwards by gravity. Instinct made Spock latch on to Jim's wrist instead of letting go. Clothes could not hold a person's body weight. He needed a better grip; he could worry about not falling after that. There; Spock could feel Jim's pulse beneath his fingers. _I've got you_. He wrenched Jim up and back over the lip of the platform.

Spock rarely used all the strength his Vulcan heritage afforded him. The Enterprise was not built for someone who could pulverize buttons as easily as press them, and so Spock was used to caution and restraint. This restraint had vanished along with most of the barriers between his and Jim's minds, and Spock nearly jerked Jim's arm out of his socket in his panic. They ended up in a tangled heap of limbs a meter or so from the wall. Jim's torso was draped artlessly across Spock's, his elbow digging uncomfortably in between Spock's ribs. His forehead was burning against Spock's neck like a brand; much too hot for a human, and so infinitely welcome because it proved Jim was there, alive. Spock gently flipped Jim onto his back. His eyes were misted and focused on a point somewhere over Spock's shoulder, and his skin was flushed poppyflower red. His pulse was strong and rapid; he was dangerously hyperthermic.

Spock gathered Jim into his arms. He needed to find McCoy, or, at the very least, some shade. The suns suddenly were less benign. Instead of reminding Spock of long afternoons in his mother's garden, of regular clocks and astrophysical calculations, they were the merciless gods of Vulcan mythology. Alam'ak and Behr'ak, come with all the fury of T'Lemalar warriors to burn those who defied them.

There was a thin belt of shade at the foot of the ramp that led to the platform. It covered Jim's face and most of his body while Spock tried to think. Their quarters and the hospital were both too far. There had to be something closer. Epia and Crius had shown them this part of Aegle before. Spock called up his memories of the city and hefted Jim's weight so it was distributed more evenly.

The fountain built in honor of the composer who'd jumped off her city was little more than a shallow bowl embedded in the courtyard. In the center, a tall obsidian bird shook droplets of water from its wings. Spock lowered Jim into the basin with what caution he could muster. Jim was conscious enough to make abortive, unhelpful lurches when the water began to soak through his tunic, and Spock was forced to step into the pool to prevent Jim from cracking his skull on the lip of the fountain. Spock carefully monitored Jim's temperature. Even as it began inching back towards normal and the flush receded, his eyes remained distant and clouded. His lips were moving, but no sound came out.

In that moment, Jim was something translucent; fragile and hollow as an empty glass. Ever since Spock first met him, Jim'd always had enough of a presence for three people. There was so much vitality, determination and simple emotion in him, folded up and doubled over to fit, rendering Jim tense as a spring, fit for bursting at any second and practically jittering with it. All that was gone. Spock cradled Jim's body to his chest, hand on his pulse, and though all the biological parts were ticking along regular as clockwork, Jim just wasn't there.


	13. Allegiance

_**A/N: **Star Trek belongs to Paramount Viacom, and I'm not making any money off this. Not a bit. I _am_ having fun, but I'm pretty sure you can't get sued for that, and it seems in the spirit of the franchise anyway. _

_The particularly correct bits of grammar in this story all belong to Dizdayn, as do the more exact sentences, and if Paramount ever needs someone to take care of the Star Trek universe for a bit I'm nominating her because of the amazingly good care she's taken with my particular version of it. _

_To the readers and reviewers new and old: thank you, tusind tak, gracias, obrigado, merci, and I really, really appreciate reading your thoughts on the story. One of the best bits about writing this is that I get to share it. The traffic for this is from all over the world, and I didn't realize it until recently, but it really is all over. Fandom might be slightly crazy at times, but as far as communities go, it's amazing. _

_...Anyway, on with it. _

* * *

><p><strong>XIII. Allegiance<strong>

The suns beat down on the back of Spock's neck as he knelt beside his captain, weighing his options. Jim was spread out in the water like the cover photo of a cheap holonovel; artistic blossoms of blood dripping from his split lip, hair and clothes soppy and clinging over the surface of the water, wafting and graceful below. His head was tipped to the side, inviting Spock's hand. Spock was far from qualified for dealing with such emotional trauma; even if his mind had been in a reasonable state of repair, he lacked the sheer experience required to mend damage to the katra with any delicacy. He ought to carry Jim to the hospital and find Sorel. Perhaps the trained healer could help Jim find his way back from whatever corner of his mind in which he'd barricaded himself . If there was anything left of Jim to find.

The last thought had barbs, cut through the glassy dreamlike quality of the situation. Spock knew as well as anyone that a universe that ran on logic cared little that it might occasionally offend preconceived and emotional notions of how things ought to be, but he couldn't shake the thought that this, this couldn't be right. If Jim were to die, it would be a clean cut death, his oft-abused body following his mind into oblivion, on his feet to the last, with Spock at his back. By this logic, Jim couldn't be gone, and if Jim was simply lost, Spock'd find his way to him. Jim was his, damn the consequences. In every possible permutation of every possible universe, that was a constant. Spock could always find his way to Jim. And if Jim were so lost he'd never come home again, well then, it only made sense that Spock'd get lost as well.

Spock reached for his end of their bond. At that point, muscle memory took over, and Spock fitted his fingers to Jim's meld-points with unerring precision - and smacked against a brick wall. Jim's mind was encased in layer upon layer of glacial indifference. Spock might as well take on the entire Klingon armada in an escape pod as force his way through. Still, he wasn't spoiled for choice; he shaped a wedge of _intention_ and began hacking it repeatedly into the wall. Incongruously, sparks flew where he impacted with the ice. At first they were bright, emerald and almost blinding in intensity. Gradually, though, they faded through a soapy olive to gray sludge. The wedge was dull, and Spock couldn't find it in himself to care. It was a pointless endeavor. He'd chipped a ridge the size of a datapad stylus in the ice, and already the fracture was freezing over again.

When the Vulcans discovered they were not alone in the universe, they'd handled the knowledge with pragmatic stoicism. The idea wasn't a mathematical impossibility, and they had planned for every contingency. Some of the changes implemented had been great; the building of Starships, diplomats appointed, the bloom of research on vaccines for foreign illnesses. While the face of science and philosophy was changing, the curriculum for the training of psychic techniques to young Vulcans had quietly been modified. Suddenly, there was a need for advanced classes on self-defense against psychic assault. Mathematically, there could be a high Esper race with less benevolent intentions than themselves. The pre-Surakian records on psychic combat were dug up from ancient libraries.

Spock had found the lessons in psychic warfare helpful; the ancient methods applied to defense as well as offense and were more proactive than Surak's. Spock had difficulties accepting his emotions and setting them aside, instead preferring to wall them off and let them wither. He'd sat on the floor of the open atrium besides his classmates, and when they told them to rely on memories to build a defense that would hold, Spock found rocks and steel and copper from the old mines near his house, and he'd remembered a wall that was strong and imposing and bright. Memories were stronger than ideas or hopes, because one had a clearer picture of them. The soap-bubble and eggshell defenses had come later, when Earth history lessons had expanded to include Jericho. So memories it was; the bridge of the Enterprise, Jim's quarters, finding Jim beneath the boulder on Niamh, an old photo of Iowa tacked to the side of Jim's desk - Jim and Sam with their arms around each other on a half-painted wooden porch, Spock's chessboard, academy dorms. Spock wielded them like a lirpa along with a command: let me in and come home.

The blade of the lirpa hovered inches from the wall, and, on impulse, he added a final memory. The San Francisco auditorium and trying to conduct a proper disciplinary trial while ignoring the small voice at the back of his head going _this, this is important, note this, now_.

Spock twirled the weapon once for momentum and stabbed at the wall, as straight and true as he could manage. The ice broke with the muted _crunch_ of a boot on a frozen puddle. Tendrils of mist wafted through the breach. Spock kicked at the hole he'd made, widening it out into a doorway. The mindscape on the other side was invisible, cloaked in grey and cloying mist. The bond was limp and directionless. Jim didn't know where to find himself, so Spock didn't either. When the gap in the ice was big enough, Spock slipped through.

The mist tangled around him as he slid deeper into Jim's vacant mind. It clung to him, licking at his katra as if to determine the taste of him, slick, odd and profoundly empty. Spock focused on his memories of Jim, and the limp tether between their katras. The mist was wrong in the manner of an Escher drawing - subtly off at first, and then, on second glance, plain impossible. Spock felt vaguely sick looking at it. Jim's mind was polluted, doubled in on itself and contorted in pain. The pollution was self-reinforcing, growing even as it subsumed itself. He had to find Jim and help him if he could. Spock was not without gifts and knew Jim very well, but some knots were beyond his untangling. That thought was too terrible to dwell on, so Spock kept on.

It felt like eons had passed when the mist began to thin. The world darkened to dusk and then the starless night of an overcast planet. Spock thought he might be hovering in empty space until he realized he was standing ankle-deep in snow. He was cold. A fire appeared. He was in the centre of a blast crater in the familiar black-blue of a fresh bruise, a junction of jagged fault lines spreading out under his feet. Spock bent to touch one of the cracks in the ground. Coarse red sand caught under his fingernails, and his entire nervous system lit up like fireworks.

The pollution was sickeningly familiar here at its source; it welcomed him with mocking deference. It was his katra that had inflicted this wound on Jim. He'd torn a gaping hole in Jim's psychic defenses and left him vulnerable to ghosts of Tarsus and mental manipulation. This was undoubtedly, undisputedly his fault. And yet he didn't know how it had happened.

On Niamh and in the spore, he'd melded with Jim to save Jim's life under severe emotional duress. He'd linked their minds and used that link. But he'd never done it with anything less than extreme caution, and their joining had been effortless; no matter the trouble it had brought them, their katras intertwining had never felt anything but right - perfect; like opening one's eyes one morning and suddenly, the blindness is gone, and being unable to remember how one bore even a single day in the dark. The wound to Jim's katra was from a psyche lashing out in pain and despair, tearing through the mind in a desperate search for something that wasn't there. The emotional echoes were stronger than anything Spock'd ever experienced. The blast crater was an achingly lonely place with no hope for respite. He missed Jim. Spock was weighted down by it: the memory of Jim, pinned and wriggling beneath him, and all the ugly space around him where Jim now wasn't. The ground shivered underneath his palms. Spock looked up, illogically expecting an expanding black hole on the arch of Jim's katra. His planet had died, and he was shaking from the pain of wounds old and new.

Still, in the barren crater there were echoes of Jim. Spock could feel him hovering just beyond reach. The arch of the sky above him was clear and speckled with stars and of course, that's where Jim would go, as far away from failed colonies and crashed cars as he could get. Their bond had been humming a constant, itching wanderlust at Spock whenever his shields were down - low grade, barely noticeable, but always there. Instead of finding it fascinating, a key to understanding Jim, Spock now worried; there were many places you could explore only if you left your body behind.

Spock wrapped the end of their bond tighter around himself and tugged. He couldn't pull Jim in, but the important thing was that Jim knew Spock was there. Then he began calling up memories. Spock began with the ones he'd called up when he'd bonded them on Niamh, the strongest he'd had at the time, and added flesh and blood to the pictures with a thousand tiny glances and comments from a year's worth of near-constant company. Spock reached and hoped. Still, Jim remained elusive, just beyond reach like some barely-forgotten word hovering on the tip of his tongue. Spock couldn't completely fault him his reticence. Most of the memories he had to offer were tarnished in some fashion or another; drinking confiscated coolant-tank vodiskey on the observation deck and pointedly not mentioning the exact six months that'd passed since the Narada, ship-wide lasertag and hoping to high heaven that the target practice was unnecessary and the brewing war with the Klingons would come to nothing, kissing a Jim that was only partially present.

And because it was Jim, defier of universal laws, Spock added hope. Despite what he'd learned, he diluted his memories with the thought that _this could be more_. The past wouldn't disappear, and neither would the rest of the universe, but Spock would carve at least one perfectly happy moment out of the fabric of reality if he had to, if that was what it took to get Jim back.

Something tentative and confused brushed up against Spock's katra then latched on with a vengeance.

There was an amorphous puddle of what looked like sunlight huddled along the side of the crater. It solidified and stretched as it became aware of itself, sprouted legs and arms and a head.

Spock waited.

Jim sat up and looked around at the crater, at the sky above, then fixed on Spock.

"Damn," he said. "I crashed the Spore, didn't I? How long was I out? Where's Daelus? Are you alright?"

"We did not crash, Jim." Spock thought that even the stones would be able to detect the fondness in his voice; if he was to be a failure as a Vulcan, at least he was a thorough one.

Jim went cross-eyed as a surge of memories hit him. He pressed his palm to the base of his nose. "Uh - right, I - fuck, I'm dizzy. Where are we? I remember -" he paused, "- I remember you leaving to do the _Kohlinahr_, and bits of Tarsus, and you sort of melting. What the hell's going on?"

"None of those memories have their basis in reality."

"Y'think? I'd notice if my First Officer was an emotionless blob of goo." The sarcasm of the comment was rendered toothless by Jim's evident relief. He was looking at Spock with the same helpless joy that usually accompanied the sight of the Enterprise after a period of leave.

Spock straightened the hem of his shirt and cleared his throat. "Attempt to distinguish your real memories from the fake. It should help you assimilate some of the mental trauma."

"Spock, why are we here?"

"Focus on your memories."

Jim looked like he might protest; thankfully he was forestalled by another wave of cross-eyed remembrance. He gaped like a fish on land for a few moments then snapped back to reality.

"I tried to jump off a tower."

"Indeed."

"Spock,_ I tried to jump off a tower_." There was a brief moment's reflection. "After I kissed you," he amended. "I kissed you then tried to jump." The order of sequences, it seemed, was important. Jim trudged through the snow to Spock's side and clapped him awkwardly on the shoulder. "Thank you," he said, "for pulling me back. I know how you feel about heights, and, uh."

Spock really, really wanted to smile. "You are quite welcome."

Jim scuffed his feet, shivered, and frowned at the snow. "Please tell me you haven't actually dragged my ass all the way to Delta Vega to discuss this just for symmetry's sake."

"Fascinating. Why do you assume we are on Delta Vega?"

"'Cause we're knees deep in snow, I'm freezing my ass off, and I'm pretty sure I fell down that ridge over there when I was running away from the huge spider-crab that wanted to eat me and lived _on Delta Vega_ -"

Jim and Spock stared at each other and reached separate, unpleasant conclusions.

"This isn't real, is it?" Jim said at the same time Spock began;

"Your memories of Vulcan -"

Spock waved for Jim to continue. Jim had stopped shivering and was studying the surroundings with wary curiosity. "This is my head."

"Your mind, to be precise. This is the way your conscious interprets your id through the limited lens of your human senses. You have suffered some psychic trauma, and your mind shut down to protect itself. I am here to retrieve you. I apologize for any -"

Jim sighed. "Shut up, Spock. That's getting old really fast. Just - my mind's kinda..."

"Do not consider the landscape too hard; you will give yourself a headache."

"My subconscious is a wasteland. It's completely fucking barren."

And Spock could see that; feel the ridge of the blast crater under his fingers. The dirt was hard-packed and frozen into shape like a particularly glacial knife.

"I guess I just expected it to be more exciting," Jim said. "Not like flowers or anything, but a bit of landscaping would've been nice. And some pretty girls. Got to have pretty girls."

Spock shook his head. "This is only a fraction of who you are. We are here because this is where the damage to your mind originates. I will need to remove the destroyed parts."

"Like - memories? No. No way. There will be no removing of memories." Jim's instant obstinacy on the subject suggested someone had made him this offer before, and Spock wondered if the Tarsus survivors had not been offered the services of an _okash-hakausu_ to allow both themselves and Starfleet to move on more easily. Spock could not help but share Jim's revulsion of that particular method of curing PTSD, but he recognized that he was emotionally compromised with regards to the matter.

"I will not touch your memories," he explained. "Memories in and of themselves are not harmful on a telepathic level. Your katra has been -" Spock considered for a moment. "Infected. Yes. That is a serviceable metaphor. Your katra was wounded and vulnerable, and someone was able to breach your natural defenses through this weakness and twist you to their will. You are too far gone to remain in control of the poisoned areas; if I destroy them, you should be able to rely on your mind once more."

"You're destroying -"

"Fragments of your katra, the pieces of you that go with someone dearly beloved, or which you invest in a dream or an idea, will return in time, and a trained healer may facilitate the process. I believe Ambassador Sorel performed this service for my older self after the destruction of Vulcan."

Jim went cross eyed again, though this time he doubled over in pain. He pressed his hands over his ears and curved in on himself, as if trying to shield himself from some invisible assault.

"My nightmares -" he began then hunched even further and vomited what looked like tar. Spock put his hand on Jim's back and waited. The attack tapered into painful dry-heaves, and eventually Jim settled. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and bent to pick up some clean snow to rid the taste from his mouth.

"My nightmares of Tarsus came back about a year ago," Jim said. "I thought it was just stress, but it wasn't, was it?"

"Nightmares are a common symptom of psychic trauma. I presume my older self mind-melded with you on Delta Vega?"

"He seemed to think it was the easiest way to explain. Honestly, I probably wouldn't have believed the whole 'I am from the future; hail, earthling'-shtick if he hadn't gotten all grabby on me."

Spock was going to _kill_ the ambassador. Melding with someone who hadn't explicitly given informed consent was punishable by law. Doing so in a state of complete emotional disrepair showed a complete disregard for Jim's wellbeing, his privacy, and his rights. Maybe it had been necessary at the time; failing to mention it to the Vulcan council was unforgivable. Failing to mention it to Jim's _bondmate_ meant that Spock would have the blessing of the High Vulcan council when he tore the ambassador's intestines out through his nose.

Spock wondered why he'd done it then Jim gritted his teeth and jerked in pain, and Spock decided he didn't care.

"Jim," he said. "When I remove the infected areas of your katra, I will allow you access to mine. It should minimize the trauma. You will still feel a certain discomfort -"

"Just get us out of here. This place gives me the creeps."

Wordlessly, Spock reached for Jim; when he was certain they were anchored, he pulled them outwards and up. Spock wrapped Jim's katra as well as he could in his own. This would be unpleasant; trying to fix the wounds to Jim's katra with what little training he had was roughly the equivalent of treating gangrene by lopping off the limb in question and pouring whiskey over the stump. He called up the damaged areas of Jim's mind, and they came to him; all the easier because of that familiar taint. When they lay by him, he twisted them into tiny, enclosed domains, like twisting lumps off a mass of dough. And when they were separate, connected to Jim only by the thinnest of threads, Spock cut them off.

Jim was screaming somewhere in his head, writhing in agony and Spock hacked desperately at the threads, willing them to part. Where the diseased areas were severed, fire dripped and faded. Spock pressed his own katra against the wounds, staunching them as well as he could, allowing Jim to draw on his presence. Spock knew the bone-deep loneliness that came with a mangled katra, and he wrapped himself tighter around Jim.

Then it was over; Spock opened his eyes, and there was Jim, halfway submerged in the water of the fountain. Spock could taste himself, Jim, and something foreign and determined and terrified and blood-tinged that burnt and clung to the inside of his nose in coal-black residue. He rested his forehead in his hands until he got his gag reflex under control.

Jim was still vaguely cross-eyed; his right eye was more or less fixed on Spock, while the left was apparently checking whether his nose was still in place. Then he blinked and rubbed water out of his face.

"Well, that sucked," he said.

Spock huffed a laugh before he could help himself. Jim had just been through a psychic field-surgery that could cause crippling depression or insanity. It more than sucked. He told Jim as much.

Then he had a sudden armful of sopping human, pinning him against the edge of the fountain.

"I can't believe you made out with crazy-me," Jim informed him. "I'd wanted to try that for _months_, and all I had to do was lose my mind. You'd have told me if I hadn't remembered, wouldn't you? Exactly as it happened." Their minds were a tangled mess, and anyway, the answer must have been obvious because Jim didn't wait for a reply before smiling, as open and bright as the sky.

Then Jim kissed him, rough, messy and exuberant; it took a few moments to align their mouths, and their noses jostled, and Spock could taste copper where Jim's teeth accidentally split his chapped lips. Jim licked his way into his mouth, invasive in the best possible way, all wet heat and ferocity. Jim straddled Spock and pressed down on Spock's shoulders, Spock slid his hands along Jim's thighs, latching onto his hips almost in self-defense. The water sloshed at the basin as they moved, and when Spock opened his eyes again, he was staring at the sun through a tangle of golden hair; there was the curve of Jim's jaw and the neck like the arch of a bow. Jim found the tip of Spock's ear and explored it with his tongue, mapping out the veins near to the surface, the sensation like a starburst, rendering him blind and gasping. Spock hooked his fingers into the waistband of Jim's trousers, holding him in place as he scraped his palm along the planes of Jim's back beneath his shirt; desperate for contact and the electric jolts of desire tying him into knots whenever he found another unexplored inch of skin to claim.

Spock had his mental shields, but Jim was beneath them, tied to him and relying on him; Spock couldn't push him away without destroying either of them. Jim was his, his to mark and take. Water dripped from Jim's hair, and Spock bit down around a droplet as it reached Jim's collarbone. Then Jim moaned, huffed a breathless chuckle at Spock's temple, and it tied Spock into knots from his throat to his toes. Spock had to get closer and claim his his _his_ - and Jim was hurting, full of deep, hungry loneliness from the surgery. This might not be the best idea, but Spock wanted it so, so much -

_- God, yes, Spock, more_ -

Spock was touching Jim everywhere, staunching Jim's katra with his own, and Spock's mind was full of burning images.

_Fuck yes, want this, want you,_ need _you_ -

- and it had the desperate edge of near-death and terror. Somewhere was a telepath that'd almost killed Spock's bondmate once, and why; Spock didn't know, as long as Spock had Jim he didn't care much and that thought struck a chord -

_- told you, someone trying to stall negotiations, knowing that if I died, Starfleet wouldn't ever touch this planet again_ -

- and that didn't even make sense, the Phaetans would all die that way, do that again Jim -

_- maybe they don't care maybe the Phaetans would prefer death over losing who they are you heard Daelus when, Spock, Spock, ah, can't think_ -

- they should have known better, known I'd protect you, the others would be far easier targets, _K'diwa_, you're mine, have you, love you, just mine -

_The others would be easier targets._

And Jim lifted his head from the crook of Spock's neck where it had dropped. He was wide-eyed with alarm, so startled with the sudden realization he looked almost offended.

"They don't have to kill me," he said. "They could just kill Sorel. Or Morrowith. Or Bones. I'd be best for derailing negotiations, of course, but if they took out all the others…" Jim was upright in a flurry of droplets then leaned heavily on the obsidian bird as the recent hyperthermia caught up with him.

"What was I _thinking_? We've left them pretty much defenseless. Sorel can do a bit with the mind tricks, but he can't hold an entire squad of guards back, as well as the Marin, even with Yjehar to back him. On your feet, Spock. Did you pick up psychic vibes from anyone else?"

Spock adapted to the sudden shift in atmosphere by slinging Jim's arm around his shoulder and supporting him. Walking was difficult at first; Spock felt like he'd downed an entire bar of chocolate, and Jim's added weight didn't help. As they began an awkward, shuffling run back down from the tower, Spock was surprised by his physical weight; he was no longer a bodiless entity drifting through an imaginary landscape, and flesh and bones were heavy.

"Negative," he answered once he'd accustomed himself somewhat to having mass. "However, I estimate a 20,1 percent chance that there might be others I have simply not sensed. The Marin's gifts are strong; I assumed this was a function of her position. Perhaps she was simply neglecting to conceal her abilities, and they are commonplace."

Jim sped up, and Spock was glad of his strength as the other man had trouble remembering to alternate his feet while walking. Jim was somewhat distant, and Spock recognized the distant, concentrated expression of a plan being assembled.

"We should find Bones first," Jim said. "He'll be in the hospital. The others should be able to hold our quarters for a while, if pressed. Does your commlink work?"

"I am not currently in possession of a commlink."

"Fuck. Ok, can you contact Sorel telepathically?"

"Negative. I can only achieve that level of synchrony with one individual at a time, Jim."

At this, Jim's arm tightened momentarily around his waist. "Just as well. I don't like to share."

Spock's head had cleared a little, and though that comment set off a pleasant, possessive rush through his blood, he frowned minutely.

"Then perhaps we ought to discuss why you persist in keeping harmful secrets from me," he said. "My older self changed you; you must have known this. After this past year, I had hoped -" Spock stopped, rephrased. "You will get us both killed if you persevere in distrusting me."

"I trust you more than anyone, Spock."

"You will forgive me, if I do not find this comforting."

"Yeah. I'm sorry. I just thought -" Jim chewed his lip thoughtfully. "- well, Tarsus was my secret. I figured it was in the past. I was ashamed of what I'd done, but I was over it. It didn't matter. The mind-meld with older you was other-Spock's secret, too. And - it mattered to me. It wasn't loud and bloody and _important_ like Tarsus, but it mattered, in its own, quiet, Vulcan way. It seemed wrong to lump it in the category of 'things that might fuck us up.'"

There was an awkward silence conjoined with Jim's explanations; a vacancy of something he wasn't saying. Spock readjusted Jim's arm so that his weight was more evenly distributed across his shoulders, pairing the movement with a brief pressure on their bond; _we will discuss this later_.

Stairs were difficult; they edged down them at an angle, Spock carrying almost all of Jim's weight. They seemed to help Jim regain some semblance of rhythm, however, and he was able to stay upright and even pick up the pace on even stretches after the first three flights of stairs. The city was still empty and evacuated; for the first time since their arrival, the lack of people made Spock nervous. He'd liked the emptiness before; it meant less variables to take into account. Now, it just set him on edge. It was too convenient; like a war had been on the verge of breaking out since they'd arrived, and he'd only just noticed the civilians had long since fled the battlefield where they stood.

The antechamber of the hospital where they'd recovered from their ill-fated flight was equally deserted. Spock was tense as a coil, expecting the sharp buzz of a phaser being discharged at any moment. The balconies of the surrounding towers and the positioning of the rooms' windows could have been designed with snipers specifically in mind. Spock's instincts were clamoring for him to find a nice, sheltered cave where he could defend his position and bondmate properly. He spread his hand possessively over Jim's lower back and moved him subtly to the left where Spock's body would shield him from the nearest tower. Jim wasn't fooled; he untangled himself to flatten against the wall. Silently, he cocked his head, and Spock fell in beside him. Together, they inched towards the doorway further into the building. It was utterly quiet. Spock could hear his pulse thrumming and beside him, Jim's racing like a hummingbird's, quick with adrenaline and dispersing the excess heat of his body.

In the other room, their heartbeat as steady and even as a clockwork, was someone else. Spock estimated an 82% chance that it was McCoy; the speed of the beats matched that of a slightly nervous human. Though it sounded odd - hurt, in some fashion, or tremulous, overlaid with static -

Jim pressed a finger to Spock's temple. _This is handy,_ he thought admiringly. _How come we didn't do this before?_

Spock winced. The physical contact he could deal with; Jim picking up on telepathic communication in a matter of minutes was unnerving.

_It requires us to be engaged, remember?_

_But it's so practical! Can I do this over distance, too?_

_If I allow you._ Spock frowned minutely, imagining all the things that could go wrong if Jim started experimenting with telepathy. _Please do not try._

_I won't. Right now. Ooh, maybe I can project images, sensations_ - Jim broke off the train of thought once he realized he was broadcasting it. _So_, he thought instead. _What're you picking up?_

There was a brief sensation of pressure as Jim inadvertently, and somewhat clumsily, tried to listen through Spock's ears. Spock brushed away Jim's hand. The heartbeat was still faintly off, and he tried to triangulate it, to give them more to work with. The heartbeat moved closer, then further away, remarkably steady.

_Oh, for crying out loud. Bones'll die of old age before we get to him_. Jim shoved past Spock, fingers inching to where his phaser would usually be out of habit. For a moment, the two heartbeats overlapped. That's when Spock realized exactly how much having Jim in the back of his head compromised his concentration. There was a rush in his ears, and the foreign heartbeat picked up the soft double thump of an extra set of aortic valves. It was much closer than he'd thought. Spock grabbed Jim by the shoulder and jerked him back. A knife sliced through the air where Jim'd been only seconds earlier. Spock latched onto the arm leading it and pulled. The Phaetan with the knife broke his hold mid-throw, tumbling through the archway with the force of it. She slid three meters before folding into a crouch, graceful as a cat, and bringing up the knife again. The last bit of obfuscating static fell away from her vitals. Spock recognized the Marin's mental signature before he recognized her face, and steadied his shields. They still blocked the unfamiliar frequency of the Phaetans' telepathy from entering his brain - and Jim's - even if the Marin's shielding could mask her mind from his. He was unsure whether the shared shields would hold in open combat, but there was nothing for it.

Spock made it halfway across the room before the Marin moved; then she was on her feet, palm outstretched. The static slammed into him like a brick wall. Spock reeled, but his momentum carried him through. He hit the Marin with all the force of a pouncing le-matya, knocking her off balance and backwards into a bedpost. She hissed with pain and ducked under Spock's outstretched hand. For her age, she was surprisingly fast; she made a precise cut in the air with the knife. Spock was knocked off his feet as a cot collided violently with his right leg. She reached for the cot, and the static thickened; Spock caught her ankle and wrapped her in a mental shield to keep her from calling the exposed metal bars through him. He could barely feel the pain in his leg through the concentration it took to keep his shields up. The Marin raised the knife, high over Spock's throat, and Spock detachedly admired her precision as he struggled to keep both himself and Jim clear of the static. Held at that angle, the knife would sever his carotid artery cleanly.

Jim rammed into the Marin from the side, and they rolled across the floor. Their robes and limbs tangled as they struggled for possession of the knife. Spock kicked the cot off, breaking some of the bars in desperation. Using his superior body mass, Jim managed to pin down the Marin and bend her wrist at an unnatural angle. The knife fell to the floor with a clatter. Jim was slower than usual, clumsy, but he grabbed the knife and stumbled backwards out of the Marin's reach.

"Give up," he said. "This is a pointless fight for you. Give us the others, and -"

The Marin spoke an imperious command in Phaetan, and the knife blazed suddenly cherry-red. Jim dropped it with a bit-back scream, and hot agony flashed through Spock's palm. The shields slipped in his mind for an instant. That was enough. The Marin moved her hands so quickly they were a blur, and two of the bars from the smashed cot leapt to her hands. Whirling, she flung one like a javelin. It went clean through Jim's shoulder, pinning him to the wall. Jim made a small, wet sound, like a kiss unsealing.

Spock felt a burning against his arm. Something hard and heavy rammed him in the chest. He didn't realize he'd gone for the Marin's throat until she hit him with the bar for the second time. If he'd been human, the force of the blow would have broken ribs. Spock didn't care. He was going to hunt down the Marin. He didn't care about the repercussions. He was going to hunt her down, rip out her mind, and spread it out on the sand. He was going to sift through every thought, hope or memory she'd ever had. And he was going to find a way to undo the damage she'd done to _his bondmate_.

The Marin circled him warily. "Usurpers," she hissed. "Murderers, betrayers, thieves, poisoners -"

Spock bared his teeth in a smile. The static in the air made his hair stand on end, and a part of him reveled in the ferocious energy humming around him. He was protected, untouchable. He was going to hurt her. He would bring Jim her heart for what she'd done.

"You betrayed us first," he said calmly, and then, because fully half of him knew what was expected and good; "By bringing harm upon a _k'hat'n'dlawa_ of the House of Surak, you have wronged all of our blood. We are one soul; an act of war upon one is an act of war upon all. As it was at the time of the beginning, so it is now-"

The Marin lunged. Spock deflected a blow with his arm and stopped his recital. The Marin's eyes were violently purple; the milk-like sheen burnt into ashes by the sheer power behind them. She aimed another blow at Spock's shoulder, and he sidestepped. The bar whistled through the air as the Marin changed the direction of her strike. It came down on Spock's collarbone with an ugly snap.

Spock knew how it went; the pain was traditional. It had begun: bring forth the lirpas and let no one interfere. The nerve clusters in the shoulders capable of immobilizing a person if pressed right were not present in the Phaetans. He'd have to settle for crude measures. Spock struck the Marin's abdomen with a low jab and twisted his fingers _in_. The Marin gasped and doubled over. Spock used his larger mass to shove her off balance. She rammed the end of the bar down on his foot, and he hissed at the jolt of pain echoing up his leg. Before she had time to withdraw for a second jab, Spock caught the wrist Jim had and bent it backwards. The frail bones ground under his fingers, and she dropped her weapon with a cry. Their faces were pressed close together; their bodies locked into position by Spock's grip on her arm. It was like holding a spring under pressure. He needed to snap her arm, take the bar and then shove the metal between the eighth and ninth ribs on the right side - he could feel her heart thrumming along, low for a humanoid, close to the kidneys. She tugged at her arm, trying to free it, and Spock tightened his hold even further. Her wrist was thin and terribly fragile, and a frantic pulse beat against his palm like a bird trying to escape its cage. The wrist bones cracked in his hand. He wasn't supposed to kill her. Not straightaway. There was something else -

_Spock! Listen to me, do you hear!_

Spock blinked.

_Spock!_

Spock yanked her over to the broken cot, bending the iron around her wrists before she could react. She closed her eyes, and blue sparks began to play along the metal.

_Jim?_ Spock thought. Superfluously, he could feel the light in his head; no-one but Jim shone like that. Still he asked just to hear the of course. _Only one person on your mental 'com list. Got my arm, a bit, mostly cloth_ - a brief pressure along and through, his triceps, demonstrating. Surak, but Jim was quick, adapting to this new sense with remarkable agility.

The Marin jackknifed beneath him, and Spock slammed down on her shoulders, keeping her pressed to the floor with his knees. He gritted his teeth and reached for her temples.

_Stay back_, he ordered Jim. He made contact with the Marin's mind with the blunt force of a wrecking ball; he needed access to her secrets, and it was hard to hear over the roaring in his ears, the clamor of his instincts. The sensation of contact deepened and spread, and the Marin was yelling straight into Spock's mind: _I must protect my people_.

Epia was sitting on the edge of one of the cots, her mouth a tight line of anguish. She was carding her fingers through Daelus' hair as he lay unmoving, petting the strands into order. His pillow was stained with blood, and though his face had been wiped clean, Spock recognized the unnatural, cramped claws of his hands from the poisoned Phaetans at the banquet. Epia smoothed out the lines on Daelus' forehead, soothed his countenance into something very like sleep. Spock saw the moment it became too much for her to bear; she bent and pressed a desperate kiss to Daelus' forehead.

"I'll kill them for you," she promised, lips to his skin. "And return their bodies, heartless, to their planets. They'll learn to fear us. Do you hear, my love? We'll not beg, even if it is the end of us."

_I thought it was the only way I could save us. If I have killed my people, I may as well die now. I'd rather die than serve you, murderer/poisoner/betrayer. We'd rather die. My Daughter had the truth of it; we will not beg_. Spock caught a fleeting glimpse of the domed ceiling of the Center as the Marin slipped into unconsciousness. Her mind wilted around him under the strain of his assault. _You will have to kill me first._

Spock pressed his fingers impossibly closer for a moment, silently demanding.

_No_, thought the Marin. _No, I do not understand -_

She lay dazed on the floor, her eyes wide and bright. Then, solemnly, Spock undid the makeshift cuffs around her wrists and carried her to a hospital bed. He laid her down as gently as he could. Jim was fixed to the wall, working at the pole with his bottom lip clamped securely between his teeth, but he didn't have the leverage to dislodge it from his flesh. Silently, Spock brushed Jim's hands aside. He placed his hand over Jim's heart, bracing him.

"Just do it already," Jim hissed between his teeth.

Yanking out the bar in a smooth movement, Spock held Jim upright as his knees buckled. Jim swore like a security officer. He braced himself against the nearest bed.

"Son of a _bitch_. What did you see, Spock? Where are the others?"

Tearing the shoulder of Jim's robe open to inspect the wound, Spock tried to translate the impressions he'd picked up from the Marin into something approximating Standard. "We may," he said, staunching the blood flow with a clean sheet, "have made a miscalculation."

Jim took the sheet out of Spock's hands. Spock realized he was shaking hard enough to leave smears of blood in tiny jerks along Jim's skin. Jim shoved him into sitting on a cot and crouched down before him.

"Hey. Don't go all shieldy. Look at me. _Look at me, Spock_." He grabbed Spock by his shoulder, one-handed. "We're alive. You didn't kill her. You can meditate away your emotions later. Snap out of it, Commander. I need you here. Where are the others?"

Spock breathed in and out; he felt nothing. Nothing around him mattered. Nothing made sense. There was no blood or guilt or pain, just a clear request for information. He ranked his thoughts in the order they would best serve his captain, ignoring the emotions clinging to them like shadows.

"The Lady Marin never breached your mind in any capacity, nor did she attempt to," said the Science Officer of the Enterprise. "She is innocent of the crimes for which I condemned her." His voice shook a little with the remnants of the adrenaline in his system. "She was - is afraid. She thinks we will enslave and kill her people. Given the manner in which Daelus and the diplomats were eliminated, it is the logical conclusion. The Lady Epia shares this opinion. She intends to send a message to Starfleet by executing us and allowing Lieutenant Commander Scott to beam aboard our remains."

Ignoring his wounds, Kirk paced in tight circles, running his hand through his hair. "Is she going to be ok?" He nodded to the Marin.

"Her mental facilities are compromised. I cannot tell to what extent until she regains consciousness."

Kirk nodded. Spock felt the steady thrum of activity along the bond, dulled by exhaustion. Kirk's katra was losing its sharp definition; it was like looking at the sun through mist. Carefully, Spock lowered his shields a little. Through the wash of _shame/guilt/despair/betrayal_ he reached for Jim, sheltered and staunched him as best he could. They felt dizzy and cold.

"Tell me what we're up against," Jim finally said, finality of a decision made in his voice. "If we're going to take on the entire city alone, I need to know what we're fighting. Yjehar and Morrowith can probably hold the tower for a little while, God knows they're prepared for it, but I need to know where they've taken the others. Anything you can give me on weapons, tactics, telepathy, would be good as well. We might have to be unorthodox about this one."

Spock bit back a smile at the wording then bowed his head. He aligned his hands neatly in his lap. "Jim. We have a problem."

"Later. Dig what you need out of her head. We need to go."

"There are no -"

"Spock! She's going to _execute Bones_! Tell me on the way."

"Jim." Spock would have reached for Kirk's arm but there was no need; he touched one of the golden filaments weaving through his katra. _Wait_. "The Marin is the only being native to the planet with an Esper rating that exceeds the Sonak barrier."

"That's great. Less trouble for us if there aren't any more spoon benders." Kirk stopped, frowned, and examined the fact again from another angle. "...if none of the other Phaetans are able to telepathically mess with stuff outside their bodies, that leaves you and Sorel as the only telepaths who could fuck with my head. And if I go out on a limb and assume you aren't trying to kill me..."

Spock nodded. "Exactly. If you eliminate the impossible -"

"I know how it goes." Kirk winced, shifted the compression on his shoulder. Spock wished desperately for a deep-tissue regenerator. "Ok. We assume Sorel's trying to sink the negotiations by poisoning people and brainwashing me. He's done a great job, so let's get out of here before Epia offs everyone and mails us to Starfleet."

"I do not understand why." Spock said. "He is Vulcan. I do not understand. It is not logical."

"Meditate later. Get us what we need to know now."

"The ambassador regards him as a friend." Spock paused then continued, lost. "_I_ regard him as a friend."

"I just gave you an order, commander."

"I -" Spock nodded. "Yes, sir."

Kirk reached out and touched the curve of Spock's neck in silent consolation. His expression belied the severity of his command, and Spock thought that he might just understand. The Vulcan exodus had strengthened the bonds between the remaining Vulcans, an instinctive defense, entrenched in their genes; the dark spaces in their minds were easier to bear with strong familial bonds to fall back on. This defense had proved its worth in times of famine and sickness, even before Surak. It portended a cease to the House wars, a time for finding your way home and replenishing the population. It had been Spock's misfortune that after the Narada, he was divided in his bonds between T'Priah and the Enterprise, further weakening his shields until he'd bonded himself to Jim and thrown the balance irrevocably in favor of Kirk, wherever he was. Still, he couldn't help but feel a certain brotherhood to Sorel, even if he hadn't enjoyed his company very much. They were both Vulcan with all the heartbreak that currently entailed.

Sorel actions were difficult to examine clearly; Spock couldn't get past that initial wave of revulsion to reach the _why_, couldn't touch what might be done about it for horror that he would have handed Jim over to Sorel willingly to sever their bond and heal the damage his older self had caused. And that was another issue entirely, the marks the Ambassador had left, and maybe if Spock hadn't begun to repair his opinion of his father's race over the past year, if he hadn't struggled so hard to fit the mold, it wouldn't feel like his world was coming apart now.

It was a relief to enter the mind of the Marin, sifting through the cool violet shades of regret that made up her Katra for anything of use to them. He saw the ambassador's tower stark against the sky, the tight, easily-defended staircase like a columella within, and the small balconies in neat patterns around it as if they were pictures in a book, and he didn't belong in the same world. He saw the bladed staves and their shorter, truncheon-like counterparts, as well as a crystal plate curved to fit like an armguard that could achieve quite a range with small, silvery darts. He saw pellets of the same silvery material, tiny serrated beetles hidden in door frames and under the cobblestones, designed to slice through flesh. Sleeping until called upon; the Phaetans' grasp of magnetic fields was a terrible thing at times. There were the caves eighty miles west of Aegle, where most of the population had been evacuated. Bubbles of air frozen into the rock, not as deep or extensive as the cave system that comprised the Centre, filled with men and women and wide-eyed children with skin so pale it barely concealed their organs. Spock could find them now; he knew to take one of the more solid crafts, a dual-winged spore designed to withstand the heavier wind currents coming from the west, and dip along the knobby spine of black rock until he was directly aligned with the new star in the sky, the one that had grown brighter by increments since he'd first seen it, and felt its pull upon his planet.

He saw the hidden fields in the shadowed corners of the canyons and the sightless fish they pulled from the underground rivers. He saw the spores come in, high above the city in a sharp 'v' like migrating birds. There were arches and fountains and gardens, penrose staircases that made his fingers itch to touch them, hundreds of beads of incandescent liquid suspended midair as the Phaetans twirled by underneath, and this wasn't what he was looking for at all, he'd been detoured somewhere along the way like a river meeting a rock and splitting off on a new, separate course...

When Spock opened his eyes, he wasn't much surprised to find the Marin staring back at him, her mouth set stubbornly.

"You're going to help me," she said. "You expose yourself too much in the attack, Son. I can very obviously see the chains. You're bound to certain courses."

Kirk bent to pick up the bar that had impaled him and circled around behind the Marin, casually getting into the best position to take her down should she try anything. She paid him no attention, cloudy gaze completely locked on to Spock.

"He is not of your blood, but nearly. A different vintage?"

The slight emphasis on _he_ as though it were a curse made the subject unmistakable. "House T'Panna. Named for the _k'hat'n'dlawa_ of my House's progenitor." Spock shook his head. "The ancient Houses mean little these days. We are little enough to fill one House. Even without the claim his House has upon mine, it would fall upon me to demand satisfaction for the crimes he has committed against me and mine before the High Council. I should very much like to hear his justification."

"Bones," Kirk reminded them pointedly. "Imminent death. They can't hold the tower until doomsday. Call off your troops, Marin."

He rapped the metal bar against the bed, stained tip neatly underscoring his point; an exclamation point painted in his own blood on the white sheets.

The Marin sized him up, hands held out wide and apologetic. There was no buzz at the back of his mind, and that, more than the defeated slump of her shoulders, told Spock she was in earnest.

"I have no troops that can hear me, and my Daughter wields a hunting horn of her own to contest my call. They are angry, and they have very good whyfores." She made an expression like she'd been made to swallow raw coffee beans. "Poisonous, murdering, pond scum that you brought to us, and wouldn't even see -"

"Let us beam down reinforcements. Lieutenant Giotto and his men can rescue both my crew and your daughter from the idiocy Ambassador Sorel's trying to bring about. Your planet's still going to be blown to a million pieces if you don't help us." Jim inclined his head slightly. "I apologize deeply for the harm Ambassador Sorel has caused, but if we don't do something _now_, the damage is going to be a whole lot worse."

The Marin slid shakily to her feet, and Spock couldn't help but admire her resilience; he felt like he'd been beaten to within an inch of his life, and his ears were ringing from the effort of maintaining his shields. She wobbled and held out an arm in a regal fashion. Kirk offered her his uninjured elbow. Narrowing her eyes, she looked Spock once over, before humming.

"I have seen your heart; you have seen the end of the world before. You shan't let us be fireworks, live or die the treaty and your Captain. In return for your honest-to-goodness word, I will help."

Spock briefly looked to Kirk, who blinked innocently back. _Well, go on. She's a good judge of character. I'd trust you over me any day. Apparently, I tend to cheat._

Spock extended his hand, tips forward, and the Marin met him in the middle once his intentions became clear. Their fingertips came together with the finality of a glass smashing to shards. "I give you my word as a son of the House of Surak, as an officer of Starfleet and as _k'hat'n'dlawa_ of the Terran bloodline Kirk, I will serve in the best interests of Phaeton Eta and its inhabitants where this does not conflict with my previously listed loyalties. I give you my word and set it over my life, name and possessions." Spock raised an eyebrow. "I trust that will be sufficient? The original oath takes up seven standard pages, taking into account the slight abbreviation that follows the Vulcan-Standard translation."

Kirk was looking at Spock with a mixture of curiosity and fondness, and when the Marin retracted her hands, Kirk ran his fingers over Spock's in a brief kiss.

"Superlative." The Marin pulled at Kirk's elbow. "Come. I can't unscramble the air for your extras without being close to my Daughter." She looked from Kirk, who kept the sheet pressed over the wound in his shoulder to Spock, who was still shaking. The corners of her mouth twitched. "Being an old woman, I have borders to what I can do."

Making up for her earlier recalcitrance, she led them through the city at as quick a pace as Kirk could sustain. His shoulder was still bleeding freely, and Spock could feel the dull throb of it echoing along their bond. Spock alternated between keeping an eye on Kirk, ready to catch him should he stumble, and scanning the towers around them for snipers. He walked half a pace behind Kirk and the Marin, shielding their backs with his own.

_K'hat'n'dlawa of the Kirk bloodline?_ Kirk asked. He showed no outward signs of talking to Spock; not even the slight incline of the head that usually gave bonded pairs away.

_We share a mind, and a purpose. We have fought many battles together. Such a bond makes us k'hat'n'dlawalar. The term fell out of use with the Surakian Reformation; that is probably why you are unfamiliar with it._ Spock paused. _It carries emotional connotations. I simply wished to invoke your name to solidify your position with the Phaetans. If I have given you cause for offense, I shall gladly revoke my claim to the title._

_Don't._ Spock could practically hear the smile in Kirk's thoughts. _Emotional connotations, huh? That makes it like a dirty word to Vulcans, right?_

_Retrieve your mind from the gutter_, Spock thought with as much dignity as he could muster. _How is your shoulder?_

_Firm and lightly tanned. What emotional connotations?_

Spock sighed, resigned to a proper explanation._ Before Surak, we were quite given to emotionalism. The literal translation would be 'half of each other's soul'. The shortened form of the address, k'diwa, means simply 'beloved'. You can understand why it is seldom employed in conversation. The nearest post-Reformation term for such a partnership would be t'hy'la, which puts a higher emphasis on the nature of the partnership rather than the emotions involved. However, t'hy'la also implies an unprecedented compatibility and a full mating bond. Our current state only fulfills the former of these requirements._

Kirk didn't answer immediately, but Spock could feel his surprise and pleasure echo through him. For a moment, Spock was tempted to reach for Kirk and turn him around so he could see the look on his face for himself, but then they rounded the corner into a great, shaded hall, the moment had passed, and the Marin was speaking.

"My Daughter holds the spine of the tower. Attacking uphill is a swift and easy way to give the buzzards your bones. You have a gift, Touch Kirk, so we use that."

The meaning of her words became painfully obvious as Kirk shifted to the side to afford Spock a clear view of the spores lined up along the far wall. Unlike the ones Daelus' had shown them, these varied in size and color from small, one-man spores in neutral dusty red glass to great dual-winged navy wedges, slightly fatter around the middle than the others, presumably for cargo. The majority, however, were black, silver-tipped needles of the kind they'd flown to the Center.

"I get to fly?" Kirk asked. He tested his shoulder and broke into a fierce grin. "Sorel and Epia won't notice us 'till we're right on top of them. Oh, this is going to be _fun_."

Privately, Spock wondered how it was possible that he could share so much headspace with Kirk and still disagree with him completely.


End file.
